


The Duplicitous Detective

by makokitten



Category: Elementary (TV), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crossover, Deception, F/F, F/M, Female Relationships, M/M, Temporarily Unrequited Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-25
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-11-17 00:08:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/545330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makokitten/pseuds/makokitten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A dynamic detective, a disgruntled doctor, and a damsel who isn't in all that much distress (thank you very much) find themselves entangled in a case of identity involving Sherlock Holmes himself. The Watsons are left to clean up the mess, and Irene Adler?  As usual, she just does what she wants.  <i>Elementary</i>/<i>Sherlock</i> crossover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Closet

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [h3rring](http://archiveofourown.org/users/h3rring/), as always, for being a magnificent beta. This story will tie in with [The Sigerson Letters](http://archiveofourown.org/works/324323/chapters/522355) at some point, so keep an eye out for that. Enjoy!

* * *

           It begins, as many things do, with a homicide.  Let it be clear that “many things,” in this context, refers exclusively to “the numerous adventures of one Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, who currently resides in New York City.”

           The homicide is not a particularly exciting one, but as usual New York’s Finest have no idea who the culprit is so they call in Sherlock to assist.  Shortly after arriving on the scene with his sober companion-cum-valet Joan Watson, Sherlock deduces that the murder was a crime of passion, that the victim’s best friend is the murderer, Jimmy Carmichael, aged thirty-six, and that the elderly next-door neighbor who “had seen nothing” had been lying to the police in order to protect dear Jimmy.

           “A good boy,” she says when confronted.  “Oh, he was over all the time.  He’d just made a terrible mistake, I’m sure.  Oh, isn’t it _terrible_?”

           Sherlock agrees that it is, indeed, terrible, but there are more pressing questions to consider.  For example, no one knows where to find Jimmy Carmichael now, and no motive has been offered for the killing.

           “I was wondering about that, actually,” says Joan.  “I mean, most people won’t just stab their best friends out of the blue.”

           “Astute observation, Watson,” Sherlock replies, when in fact she’s had better days.  She’s more likely to shut up when complimented, though.  He _does_ believe the key to finding Jimmy lies in the motive, so he sets to work.

           After several visits to the apartments of the deceased and the fugitive, Sherlock finds it and tells Joan they’re going out.

           “Rebecca Rochelle,” he says, rubbing his hands together as he begins to get truly excited about the case.  “Quite the name.  She chose it herself, of course, you rarely come across that sort of alliteration unless it’s deliberately selected.  Besides which, I don’t think any reasonable parent would inflict a name like that.”

           “I don’t know,” says Joan, “someone named you Sherlock.”

           Sherlock sighs.  “I meant that no parent would wish their child to grow up and become a femme fatale, which is clearly the profession a name like that indicates.  If you could call it a profession.”

           “Oh.”

           Joan seems with dissatisfied with that answer, so Sherlock says, “Yes?”

           “You just go off on these tangents, and I’m wondering—didn’t anyone ever teach you not to judge a book by its cover?”

           Grinning, Sherlock replies, “My entire profession, Watson, is based on judging books by their covers.  Speaking of which, the main character’s love interest dies near the end of that novel you were reading yesterday.  I’d say somewhere around page three hundred and sixty.  Three hundred and sixty-six at the very latest.  Leaving just enough time for the heroine to conquer her grief and begin to move on.”

           Joan huffs and says nothing for quite a while, although she does give Sherlock a dirty look when he starts humming to himself.  To break up the lull in the conversation, or perhaps to indulge him, she asks, “Fine, so what does this Rochelle woman have to do with anything?”

           “She’s the motive.”

           “So they were fighting over her.”

           “No, they were plotting to kidnap her,” Sherlock says.  “It’s all in their emails—which they took great pains to erase.  I was able to recover them fairly quickly.  Rebecca Rochelle is a singer at the club that both of the men frequent.  They’d become _obsessed_ with her, something about her voice or her beauty.  The messages weren’t all that coherent.  Earl, our victim, was the mastermind behind it all, but Jimmy got scared and wanted to call it off.  They fought, and—as you saw, goodbye Earl.”

           Joan sticks her hands into the pockets of her coat.  “How do you know Jimmy was the one who wanted to call it off?”

           “Because in the four days since the murder, Miss Rochelle has remained noticeably un-kidnapped.  I’ve spoken with the owner of the club, and she’s shown up for work as usual.”  Sherlock grins.  “Now, if I were so desperate, so affected, as to kill my best friend for a woman, I would go to the greatest lengths to obtain said woman before I skipped town.  But I don’t believe Jimmy had it in him.  From the email exchange it was clear that Earl was the dominant one in their partnership—the killing must have been self-defense, or Jimmy wouldn’t have had the guts to do it.  He would never be able to kidnap anyone on his own.”

           “Right,” says Joan, who has learned to trust Sherlock on these things by now.  “So are we going to find Jimmy?”

           “Possibly,” says Sherlock.  “ _I’m_ going to interview Rochelle and see what she knows.  If we’re in luck, she may even be sheltering him.  The emails indicated that she had some sort of contact with both Earl and Jimmy.  She must have had a favorite between them.  If it were Jimmy, and he’d just heroically foiled a plan to kidnap her, I see no reason why she wouldn’t welcome him with open arms.”

           “Are the police meeting us there?”

           “Of course not.  If our man is with her, we wouldn’t want to scare him off with _sirens_.”

           Joan furrows her brow.  “So you think this woman is harboring a fugitive, and you’re just going to go up to her front door and _knock_?”

           “No,” says Sherlock, feeling pleased with himself, “I’m not.”

           It takes Joan a moment, but then she gets it.  “You can’t just break into some woman’s apartment,” she says.  Ha!  Shows how much she knows about being a detective.

* * *

            Breaking into Rebecca Rochelle’s apartment is not easy, but it’s also not as difficult as one might think.  Then again, Sherlock _is_ a genius, and, as such, he sneaks into her building through the back door, the one the cleaners use.  There isn’t enough of a window for Joan to follow him in, but that’s probably for the best.  She won’t be pleased.  Most likely she’ll insist on swabbing him when he gets out.  He’ll have to bear it.  Two people aren’t nearly as stealthy as one. 

            Rebecca lives on the sixteenth floor, the perfect place for someone suffering from paranoia.  Spy movies aside, it would be nearly impossible to scale the building and enter her apartment from a window.  The strategic positioning doesn’t occur to Sherlock until he attempts to pick her lock—he didn’t bother knocking and is actually counting on her being asleep, since she works late into the evening—and finds that he has not one but _three_ locks to contend with, each more difficult than the last. 

            He gets her door open eventually, of course.  But it does make him think. 

            The apartment is nice.  Too nice, in fact.  Sherlock realized that immediately when he learned what her address was.  As far as he knows, Rebecca has one job, and she makes very little; she shouldn’t be able to afford to _breathe_ near this neighborhood.  And yet Sherlock’s standing in her flat, which is definitely hers because her name is beside the door, and it’s tastefully but not opulently furnished in a way that blends Victorian patterns with modern sensibility.  Everything has its place.  Sherlock can appreciate her interior decorating skills even if he’s not a fan of her peer group. 

            A quick peek in the kitchen reveals that Rebecca is not entertaining anyone at the moment, however.  Her fridge barely contains enough to feed her, much less someone else.  Sherlock would expect that if she had someone over, she’d send whoever does her shopping out to buy some decent food.  She doesn’t seem the type to starve her guests. 

            He pokes around the remaining rooms at his own pace.  The door to the master bedroom is closed, but he doesn’t bother opening it.  He knows he’ll find nothing.  If Rebecca had received an unexpected gentleman caller, this place would _show_ it somehow, but everything is orderly.  No, Rebecca Rochelle hasn’t experienced any great shocks in the last few days.

            Sherlock is just about to leave when he notices the closet.  Nothing unusual about a closet door, strictly speaking.  When its owner cares enough about the contents to put a lock on it, though, that’s when things get interesting.

            This lock is different from the ones on the front door, and it takes Sherlock a long time to pick.  When he manages, he’s feeling pretty triumphant.  “Let’s see what’s behind door number two,” he says, and opens the door very slowly.

            Then he just says, “Oh.” 

            A moment later, something cold presses up against the back of his neck.  He knows the muzzle of a gun when he feels one.

            “Miss Rochelle, I presume,” Sherlock says, but he’s too interested now to be properly afraid.  He does raise his hands, though.  Gesture of submission.  She’ll appreciate that.  “I’m not here to hurt you.”

            “I don’t believe you.”  Her voice is low-pitched and sultry, with a faint Brooklyn accent that is—yes—thoroughly fake.  It would have fooled most people, but he isn’t just anyone.

            “So I gather.”  Trying to buy time, to start a friendly conversation, he says, “I don’t suppose you have a license for that gun.”

            “I don’t suppose you have a warrant for my apartment.”

           “Touché.”  She’s good.  Sherlock sighs to emulate defeat, since she can’t see him, but he can’t stop smiling.  “I only want talk to you about Earl Goodman and James Carmichael.”  It’s a lie.  Not a very big one.  He does want that, but not exclusively.  Not now that he knows. “I’m going to turn around slowly so I can watch you as you talk.  It’s crucial to my process.  Please don’t shoot me in the head.  That would be extremely messy.” 

            “I’ve cleaned up bigger messes than this.”

            “I’d imagine so,” Sherlock says, “but I’m trying to be kind.  I don’t want you to have to call the police—I don’t think you want that either—and blood is difficult to get out of white carpet.  You don’t seem the type to do a lot of scrubbing.”  And based on the contents of her closet, he ventures, “Perhaps you have friends who take care of that for you?” 

            She takes a step back and gives him enough space to turn and face her.  Her voice is cool as she says, “I’m retired.”

            Sherlock is about to ask her why a retired dominatrix would still have a closet full of riding crops and ropes and equipment beyond his wildest dreams, but the question dies on his lips when he looks at her. 

            Rebecca Rochelle is—is not this woman’s name, so he should really stop thinking of her that way.  Whatever her name is, it doesn’t matter right now.  Sherlock is not in the habit of analyzing whether or not women are attractive when he first meets them, but now that he knows they have compatible interests he considers her in a different light.  She’s heartbreakingly gorgeous: not necessarily beautiful in the boring, conventional way, as her features are too sharp, but she’ll still be striking to look at when she’s sixty-five.  Regal.  She holds her head high and her shoulders square and her skin is smooth and pale, contrasting with dark hair that falls just past her ears in ringlets.

            He can see a good deal of her skin, too. Nothing immodest, of course, but she’s still in a nightgown—negligee, more like—and while she’s draped a robe around her shoulders he can still see her collarbone and most of her legs.  He can make out the outline of her breasts, too.  They’re symmetrical, which is what he finds most attractive about breasts; size doesn’t matter to him.  She’s small all over, yes, but power runs through her like a current, and that’s what’s most important. She holds the gun like it’s an extension of her hand.  He very nearly shudders to imagine her holding a whip.

            “You were questioning me,” she reminds him, not at all embarrassed by his gaze.

            “I… was,” he says.  “Questioning you.”

            “I’ll help you,” she says, and he thinks she’d find this amusing if she weren’t so anxious to get him out the front door.  “I’m familiar with the two men you mentioned, Earl and Jimmy.  They come to hear me sing.  Earl used to send me flowers.  We’ve exchanged words a few times.  Why do you want to know?”

            “Because.”  Sherlock clears his throat.  Either she’s lying or Earl exaggerated the level of contact.  He’s fairly certain she isn’t lying, but she’s closely guarded.  Earl was unstable, though.  He’ll give her the benefit of the doubt.  “Because Earl is dead, and Jimmy killed him.” 

            She barely bats an eyelash.  “I know nothing about that.” 

            “Do you know where Jimmy Carmichael is now?”

            “No.”

            “I believe you.”

            “Then why haven’t you left?  There’s nothing here for you.”

            “Because you’re a small-time singer living in a flat that should be entirely beyond your means and you have a closet full of BDSM paraphernalia,” Sherlock says, putting on his most winsome smile.  “I find both of those things _highly_ intriguing, so I’d say there’s something here for me after all.” 

            In the past, his smile has inspired others to smile as well.  It doesn’t work on Joan, though, and it appears to have no effect on this woman, either.  “Who are you?” she demands. 

            Ah.  This is a line he won’t forget.  “Sherlock Holmes.”

            The response is immediate. “No, you’re not.” 

            His heart jumps, but his smile doesn’t waver.  “Yes, I am.” 

            “No.”  Just like that, she drops the fake accent.  British.  He’d known she wasn’t a New Yorker, but he had no idea where she actually came from.  And now Sherlock is in trouble.  “I’ve met Sherlock Holmes,” she says, pressing forward with the gun.  She’s steering him back toward the door, trying to usher him out.  “And you aren’t him.  Tell me who sent you.”

            “No one sent me.”  He takes a few steps back, less than thrilled at this development but determined to charm his way out of it.  “I’m a detective, Miss Rochelle” —he uses the fake name, that should be enough of a peace offering— “and I have a habit of coming and going as I please.  A bad habit, some might say, just like you’ve a bad habit of pointing your gun at me when I’ve done nothing wrong aside from a little breaking and entering.  I _am_ Sherlock Holmes.  It’s possible for there to be more than one in the world.”

            “Two detectives named Sherlock Holmes?” she asks.  “And I suppose it’s just my luck that they should both fall into my lap.  But I’m not a believer in coincidence.  I saw your face when I said I’d met him—you’re not the only one who can read faces.  You’ve met him too.” 

            Sherlock has nothing to say to that.

            “Oh, you’re probably a relative, of course,” she continues.  “Still a Holmes.  Minds like that tend to run in families.  I’m willing to believe that no one sent you, as you have no idea who _I_ am.  And I think this is enough talking for one day.”

            They’ve moved into the front hall now.  Sherlock glances over his shoulder at the door.  “I’m not so sure,” he says.  “There’s still the small issue of your closet.”

            She opens her mouth to reply when the intercom lets forth a loud burst of static right by Sherlock’s ear.  The woman formerly known as Rebecca Rochelle leans forward to press the button and respond.  “Yes?”

            “Sorry to bother you, Miss Rochelle,” says a male voice.  The doorman, presumably.  “There’s a woman here who wants to see you.  She says it’s urgent.”

            “Just a moment.”  She takes her finger off the intercom and raises an eyebrow at Sherlock.  “Girlfriend?” 

            “Oh, god,” Sherlock says, a little too quickly.  “No, no.  My valet.  She’s—very protective, doesn’t like me engaging in illegal activities—boring, really.  Extremely dull.  Not as interesting—”

            “Well, girlfriend or not, she seems very insistent on having you back,” she says.  “Shall I buzz her in?”

            “No!” Sherlock exclaims, getting a bit desperate and casting all subtlety to the side.  “No, I think you and I _do_ have a lot more talking to do.  And by ‘talking,’ I may mean ‘punishing.’  You, punishing me.  With one of those nice riding crops gathering dust in your closet.  Haven’t I been bad?”

            “Extraordinarily so, Mr. Holmes,” the woman replies.  “Which is why you need someone who’ll punish you in a way you won’t particularly like.”  She presses the button and says into the intercom, “Send her up.”

            Sherlock’s shoulders slump, but he’s careful to keep his smile in place.  She’s still studying him.  “Well, this has been fun,” she says.  “Don’t bother me again, or I _will_ call the police.”

            “No, you won’t,” says Sherlock.

            She smiles back at him for the first time, and it’s an infinitely cruel, infinitely pretty smile.  “Am I going to have to humiliate you by kicking you out in front of your valet, or will you be a good boy and show yourself the door?”

            When Joan steps out of the elevator, Sherlock is standing calmly in front of the apartment labeled “R. Rochelle.”  After she finishes berating him for leaving her behind—and god, _god_ , the woman inside can probably hear every word—he says, “I found something.”

            Joan blinks in surprise.  “You solved the case?”

            “No,” says Sherlock, shaking his head.  “I’m getting around to that, Watson, trust me.  This is something _better_.”


	2. The Build Up

* * *

            The weather is changing.  Irene Adler hasn’t yet swapped out her summer clothes for winter, but she has enough in-between outfits to tide her over for the fall.  Besides, there will be warm days ahead, mixed in with cold and crisp.  It would be shortsighted of her to switch over to wool from cottons and silks just yet.

            She’s going to be seen today.  Sometimes she’ll have days when she only leaves the apartment after sunset to go to her club, but she isn’t always so lucky.  There was once a time when she would have been happy to wander about during the day, attracting stares, handing out smiles as party favors.  Now there’s a certain danger to smiling at strangers that she can’t often afford and doesn’t want to.

            Irene’s still vain enough to take pride in her appearance, though.  The sun is shining brightly outside her window, the day already in full swing.  To match, she decks herself out in a cheerful baby blue dress to bring out her eyes, dusts dark powder on her eyelids, and paints her lips red.  She tops it all off with a hat, also blue, to shape her hair and frame her face.  People will look, no doubt.  Men she doesn’t know will call her beautiful.  But that’s all.  She’s found that dressing like something out of another century tends to invite more confusion than harassment. 

            The email from her lawyer was very direct: _Meet me at the Au Bon Pain two streets down to discuss the Carmichael affair_.  (Jimmy Carmichael was found dead in a hotel room with a bullet through his head and a gun in his hand.  He confessed to the murder in his suicide note.  It’s a shame; he was a nice young man with a promising career ahead of him.  She’d liked him.)  It’s also distinctly not from her lawyer.  The diction is completely off.  Still, that Au Bon Pain is usually full of people and it’s the middle of the day, so Irene doubts she’s in any real danger.  She’s also eager to rendezvous the person who was able to effortlessly hack into her lawyer’s email account, especially because she already knows just who it is.

            He’s sitting at one of the tables outside of the restaurant, twiddling his thumbs, wearing the same red scarf he had when he broke into her apartment.  To his left sits an extraordinarily beautiful woman absorbed in a book.  The woman has a coffee cup, and he has nothing.  Their body language clearly suggests that they’re waiting for someone to arrive.  When she walks up to the table, he looks up at her and breaks into one of the warmest grins she thinks she’s ever received.

            “You’re late,” he says.

            “You’re not my lawyer,” she replies.

            The woman next to him seems surprised to hear that.  “Oh my god,” she says to him, turning around in her chair.  “ _Again_?  Sherlock, we _talked_ about this.  I am so sorry, Miss—”

            “Rochelle,” Irene says, smiling to pacify her.  “Please, call me Rebecca.  And it’s all right, I wanted a word with him anyway.”

            She holds out her hand, and the woman stands to shake it, a curtain of shiny dark hair falling over her shoulder.  They’re of a height, although Irene’s wearing taller heels, so Irene has a perfect view of the other woman’s face.  She needs to remind herself not to get distracted by looks.  This woman is straight—obvious, although that’s never really been a hindrance—and Irene is categorically uninterested.  That doesn’t mean she isn’t physically attracted, but it’s nothing that can’t be ignored. 

            “Joan Watson,” the woman says. 

            “It’s a pleasure.”  Irene glances at the man she came to meet, her lips pressed together in the tiniest of smirks, but he just looks off to the side.  He knows what she’s getting at and is faintly embarrassed by it.

            “You’re the woman whose apartment he broke into, aren’t you?” Joan is saying.  “Thank you so much for not having him arrested.  I know he can be—difficult.” 

            “Not at all.”  Irene withdraws her hand, folding it over her clutch purse.  Joan’s eyelashes are absolutely magnetizing.  “On the contrary, Mr. Holmes was quite charming, in a way.  It seems he and I have some unfinished business.” 

            “Oh.”  Joan looks from her, to him, still avoiding her face, and back to her.  “Should I leave you two alone?”

            “That won’t be necessary,” says Irene, just as he says, “Yes, _please_.” 

            After sorting through their responses for a second, Joan says, “I’ll just be a few tables away if you need me.”  She quickly collects her book and her cup of coffee and removes herself from their conversation. 

            Irene sits down, not in the empty chair, but across from him so she can watch him better.  “Joan _Watson_.” 

            “Shut up.” 

            “How did you ever meet Miss Watson?  Was that a coincidence too?”

            He doesn’t reply. 

            She shifts in her seat, leaning forward, enjoying the fact that she’s already got him on the defensive.  This is a game she hasn’t had to play in a long time.  Smiling, this time with teeth, she asks, “Aren’t you going to offer me something to drink?” 

            “I was,” he says, “but then you ruined the mood.”  Sighing, admitting defeat, he adds, “Joan is my—assistant.  My father hired her.”

            “I see.”  Irene looks at over at Joan for a bit longer than she should, just to make sure he notices.  “How fortunate that she isn’t your girlfriend.”

            He doesn’t hide his mortification very well.

            Oh, this is fun.  She’d forgotten how rewarding it was to make a Holmes squirm.  Refocusing on him, she says, “So your father knows, then.” 

            The response is quiet, angry, a little ashamed.  “Yes, he does.”

            “He must be a very accepting person.” 

            A shrug.  “Not particularly.  I was always… the ‘salvageable’ son.”

            “Hm.”  Irene presses a gloved finger against her lips, considering this.  “I’d think of the three of you, Mycroft would be more deserving of that title.” 

            “Mycroft salvaged himself without outside intervention.  I’m salvageable.  You see the distinction.”

            “I do.”  It’s a fascinating one.  She couldn’t have cared much for the Holmes family history before, but now she’s intrigued.  “So your father was willing to do anything he could to salvage you, including…”

            “Including playing along when I adopted the identity of my dead brother, yes.”

            Irene raises her eyebrows.  “That’s a bit extreme,” she says, “Mr. Sherrinford Holmes.”

            He’s back in the game now, because, at least with this, he can match her stroke for stroke.  She sees that in his face when the grin returns.  “Well met, Miss Irene Adler.”

            She sighs, surprised to find her smile softening.  “That isn’t the name I was born with, but it’s the only one I’ve adopted that I consider truly mine.  I suppose you’re free to use it if you like, since you went to the trouble of uncovering it.”  She leans back in her chair.  “How did you guess?”

            “I didn’t,” he says.  “I studied my brother’s writings, and John Watson’s—I gathered the facts, eliminated the impossible, and whatever remained, however improbable…”

            “Must have been the truth,” she concludes.  “Yes, I know.”

            “You’re officially dead,” Sherrinford continues, “according to the British government, but people don’t stay dead for very long these days, I’ve noticed.”  He couples the last sentence with a secretive gesture, tapping his finger against the side of his nose.  She understands.  He, too, knows the truth about their mutual friend.

            “Convenient.”  She’d pieced the story together in the past couple of days, determined to find out all she could about the impostor in her apartment.  It’s cathartic to have it confirmed.  “Your brother dies across the Atlantic just as your life begins to fall apart—drugs, I’d imagine.  For a fresh start, you cross the Pond, endure rehab to appease your father, assume Sherlock’s identity, and continue his work exactly as he would have if he hadn’t met an untimely demise.  People aren’t as familiar with him in America, despite his online presence.  Sherlock Holmes was a very British phenomenon.”

            “He had it made,” says Sherrinford, sounding a bit envious.  “Before that last bout of parkour went terribly wrong, I mean.”

            “You always admired him.”

            He spreads his hands out on the table.  “I’m not sure I’d put it in those terms,” he says.  “How did you find out about me?”

            “The boring way, I’m afraid.  Consulted the record books.  I still have some friends in London who are willing to indulge me on occasion.”  She bats her eyelashes at him.  “ _Actually_ , I did get my hands on a few photos of you from primary school…”

            “Oh, no, _don’t_ —“

            “I must say, your hair was very—”

            He throws up his hands.  “I surrender, Miss Adler.  I’ll admit it, I have been thoroughly beaten.”

            For the first time in a while, Irene laughs.  The couple at a table adjacent turns to look.  She stops laughing, but her lips tingle a bit from the aftertaste.  She felt that.  Laughter feels like champagne.

            “One year younger,” she muses quietly.  “And you’ve always admired him, even when he’s stumbled.  You coveted what he had so badly that your father even found you a Watson.  So, what are you going to do when your big brother shows up wanting his identity back?”

            Sherrinford sighs, weaving his fingers together.  “I haven’t considered it,” he says.  “I was hoping that there might be room for two consulting detectives named Sherlock Holmes.  After all, we’d have an ocean between us.”

            “I’m not sure the Atlantic will be vast enough to save you from Sherlock Holmes’ ego.” 

            “Damn.”  He snaps his fingers.  Theatricality runs in the family, too.  “Should have tried for the Pacific.  Much larger.” 

            “Indeed.”  Irene clasps her hands together in her lap.  “Well, presumably you called me here to gloat, or to blackmail me, but it seems we’ve reached an impasse.  Would you like me to humiliate you any further, or shall we call it a day?” 

            “Actually,” says Sherrinford, “I think a bit more humiliation might be just what I need.” 

            Irene expected as much.  She knew what he wanted from her the moment he looked at her back in her apartment.  He desires the trappings, certainly, the whips and chains, but for him it’s all tied up in sexual gratification.  That’s not to say he hasn’t been perfectly decent about it.  Aside from a fraction of a second during their first meeting, he’s always kept his eyes on her face.

            It’s likely that he’s done his research on this front as well.  She deleted her website, but it’s not unrecoverable.  A professional dominatrix isn’t sexually involved with her clients—but he’d know she was never _that_ sort of professional.  Even so.  “I already told you that I’m retired, Mr. Holmes.”

             “I know, but—”

            “Besides, I’m celibate.”

            From the look Sherrinford gives her, she might as well have said she was a halibut.  She watches as he rearranges his thoughts into something coherent.  “That’s funny, you don’t seem the religious sort.”

            “I’m not,” Irene says, folding her hands on the table.  “But it provokes fewer questions than ‘abstinent’ because people assume religion to be the reason.  Some still ask, naturally, and more try to change my mind.”  The smile she gives him is closed-lipped and devoid of any warmth.  “I also prefer to say ‘celibacy’ because it implies a deeply personal conviction.  I have my reasons, Mr. Holmes.  I ask that you respect them.”

            He nods.  “I understand.”

            “Good.”

            “But—”

            “Yes?”

            “It’s not that I don’t believe you, Miss Adler, but if you’re retired, as you say, why have you kept your…” He trails off, waving a hand.  She knows that he’s fighting the urge to categorize everything in her closet out of sheer excitement.  Eventually, he manages, “Equipment?”

            The corner of her mouth twitches, and something shifts in her stomach.  “I’m saving it for someone special,” she tells him.  “That’s all you need to know.”

            “All right.”

            She nods, and stands to leave.  Just as she opens her mouth to bid him goodbye, he asks abruptly, “Will I—be seeing you anytime soon?”

            “I can’t imagine,” she says, thinking it kinder not to blunt her honesty.  He’s a decent way to waste an hour, but prolonged contact with a Holmes boy has never done her much good.  “If you break into my flat again, I’ll be most displeased.”

            “No, that’s not what I meant.  It’s just.”  He tugs at his scarf to loosen it, as if the outside air has suddenly grown too warm for him.  “We’ve a lot in common.” 

            “Oh?” 

            “We’re both…”  He licks his lips nervously.  “…hiding.”

            The smile Irene’s wearing doesn’t slip, not even for a fraction of a second.  His face drops.  He knows he’s said the wrong thing.  Before he can apologize, she says, “Goodbye, Mr. Holmes,” and turns on her heel to leave him.

            As she walks away she hears, behind her, in a separate world, Joan Watson rejoining Sherlock and telling him something about the novel she was reading.  But that’s somewhere else, an alien universe.  For her, nothing exists aside from the sidewalk in front of her and the feel of him watching her back as she goes.

* * *

             “So, are you going to see her again?” 

            Sherlock doesn’t look up, still tinkering with whatever’s on the table.  “Who?” 

            “You _know_.”  Joan Watson crosses her arms.  It’s always easy to tell when he’s avoiding her.  “Rebecca.  The woman from before.”

            “Oh.”  He puts his gizmo down and looks up at her, sitting up a bit straighter.  “Yes, I expect so.  New York has a way of—”  He raises his hands, bring them closer together.  “—contracting around social relationships, I’ve noticed.  You run into people on the Tube multiple times over when probability says you shouldn’t encounter them at all.” 

            Joan sighs.  “That’s not what I meant.”

            “I know it’s not.”  He picks up the toy again, tries to twist the pieces like it’s a Rubik’s cube.  “But I thought the way I answered the question was vastly more interesting.”

            She’s learned not to get frustrated by things like that by now.  Keep talking, eventually he’ll open up.  She sits down next to him, careful not to touch his things.  “Well,” she says, trying to ease into the subject, “I only saw her for a minute, but I liked her.”

            Sherlock drops his gadget on the table with a loud _bang_.  Joan jumps in her seat, startled by the noise, watching him to make sure he’s not about to do anything else destructive, but he brings up his hands to knead his forehead.  “Yes, that’s the _point_ ,” he says.  “You’re _supposed_ to like her.  She’s designed so that you’ll _like_ her.  Stylish yet approachable, poised but… non-threatening in social situations.”  He exhales.  “That’s her persona, Watson.  Very _likeable_.”

            He utters the word like it’s a death sentence.  Joan says, “Oh.”  Because you don’t have to be a consulting detective to know what’s going on here.  It’s that simple.  “You like her too.”

            Immediately, Sherlock’s head swivels around so he can stare the idea right out of her.  “What?  No, I don’t.”

            “Yes, you do.”

            “Don’t be ridiculous, Watson.”

            “I’m not the one being ridiculous.”  Joan puts her elbow on the table and balances her chin on her hand.  “You like her, but you’re scared to like her so you’re denying it.”

            Sherlock looks away, attempting to absorb himself in his tinkering again.  “No.”

            “You’re allowed to encourage me to date, but it doesn’t go the other way.  That’s how it is?”

            “Yes,” he says.  “That’s _exactly_ how it is, because your perception of the situation is extremely limited.  My attraction to Miss Rochelle was based on the erroneous assumption that we had compatible—extracurricular interests.  I won’t elaborate to avoid offending your vanilla sensibilities.”

            “My—”

            “Now that it is _clear_ ,” Sherlock says, steamrolling right over her, “that we do not, my business with her is finished.”  He tosses his piece of scrap metal up in the air and catches it, watching the light play off its surface.  Anything to avoid looking back at her.  Joan notices that.  He might think she doesn’t, but she does.  “So unless Miss Rochelle and I run into each other on the street or in some other public place, no, I highly doubt I’ll be _seeing_ her again.”

            Joan watches his tirade, turbulent expressions and all.  She knows he’s afraid—they established that already.  He’s been hurt, and he’s afraid.  Maybe it’s too soon for him to move on from whatever triggered his substance abuse in the first place.  Maybe…  “That’s a shame,” she says.  “It would have been nice for you to have had someone to motivate you.”

            “Motivate me?”

            “To stay clean.”

            “I don’t _need_ motivation, Watson.”  Sherlock smiles at her.  “Besides which, that’s your job, is it not?”

            “It is,” Joan agrees.  “But I won’t be here forever.”

            For once, he seems to have nothing to say.

            Joan stands up.  “Well,” she says, “I’m going to go to my room and finish the book you spoiled for me.  Just shout if you need anything.”

            She’s almost up the stairs, out of earshot, before she hears him yell, “It’s all _right_ , the protagonist meets someone new in the end.  Everything gets settled.”

            “You’re not helping,” she calls back.

            But the words tumble around and around in her head for a while, and she finds she can’t focus on her book.  _Protagonist meets someone new.  Everything gets settled_.  That’s never how it works in real life, of course.  A romantic relationship doesn’t mean automatic stability.  In fact, it can mean the exact opposite, especially if the relationship terminates in a messy breakup.

            Still, Joan tends not to have contact with her clients after six weeks are up.  When the contract runs out, the relationship is over.  Generally, that’s not a problem, but with Sherlock… with Sherlock, she’d like to know that someone out there is keeping tabs on him.  And he could stand to have a few more friends.

            Setting her book aside, she grabs her laptop, opens it, and types “Rebecca Rochelle” into Google.


	3. The Club

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place before _Elementary_ episode six, "Flight Risk."

* * *

            It’s been a couple of days without a case, and Joan has been watching him like a hawk.  Sherrinford can’t imagine why.  Many perfectly reasonable people start throwing things against the wall when frustrated or bored, and he’s being more productive than most: memorizing how dents correspond to the velocity and weight of an object is not a fruitless exercise.  If the noise bothers her, she should invest in better earplugs.

            What sets her off in the end—if it can be called “setting her off” when she’s clearly been planning something for days—is his refusal to eat any more of her revolting takeaway.  Instead of her usual reaction (a sigh of exasperation and an agreement to simply order pizza), Joan crosses her arms and proudly announces, “All right.  Then we’re going out.”

            “What?”  He’s kneeling by the wall, examining the damage done by the ceramic flowerpot that now rests in pieces on the floor.  “Out where?”

            “It’s a surprise.”

            It’s not a surprise.  Her Google search history is very telling.  But she’s less disagreeable when he plays along with her, so he only says, “I hate surprises,” and goes back to surveying the wall.

            Joan doesn’t accept that answer.  “Well, you need to eat.”

            “Except that’s where you’re wrong, Watson.  My body can go for weeks without food, of course assuming I’m properly hydrated—”  He swipes his finger through the dent, getting a feel for just how deep it is.  Then, he looks up at her.  “—which I have been, thanks to you.  _Food_ would only be a distraction, a waste of energy.”

            She crosses her arms.  “A little fresh air isn’t going to kill you.”

            “You’re not serious.”  He sniffs.  “We’d die from the shock of being exposed to fresh air in New York City.”

            “Fine.  Then I’m going out without you, and you can stay here and have fun destroying your house.”

            He stands up, perhaps a bit too quickly, and adjusts his sweater.  “I thought the point of this was to get me to eat.”

            “It was, but you’re not being cooperative, I’m still hungry, and I’m not going to wait up for you.”

            She turns and begins to walk to the front door.  “Where are we popping off to, then?” he calls.  He already knows where and she can’t go without him.  The things she might _say_ , dear _God_.

            “Oh, so it’s ‘we” now.”  A statement, not a question.  Sly and triumphant.  Yes, congratulations, Joan Watson, on getting him to go along with you.  She disappears into the foyer.

            He practically sprints to catch up with her.  (Maybe that’s what she wanted all along.  Exercise fiend.)  “Tell me where.”  What will she like?  “Please.”  He wants to hear her confirm it.  It’s possible, if highly improbable, that she just wants to make him eat Chinese food in a real restaurant.

            She stops in the middle of grabbing her coat, and looks him up and down.  “Will you put on a sport coat or something?”

            “Will you tell me what’s going on?”

            “If I tell you, will you wear something nice?”

            “Probably not.”

            “Then I’m not telling you.”  Joan pulls her coat around her shoulders, and he reaches for his scarf.  She’s wearing something black and moderately decent, and she’s put her hair up, too.  Her long, silver earrings complement her cheekbones.  The dress could be better (it’s reductive, makes her look too short), but she’s not trying to impress anyone, not him, not who they’re going to see.  It’s all down to social code in the end.  Pointless.

            “Is this really your strategy, Watson?” he asks, somewhat offended, but she doesn’t answer him.  In the end, he follows her out the door, scowling.

            If there’s one thing to be said about Joan Watson, it’s that she’s terribly efficient.  Alarmingly so. in fact.  Within minutes, Sherrinford’s been bundled into the back of a cab, and she’s whispered their mysterious destination in the cabbie’s ear.  He doesn’t know why she feels the need to be so secretive, as it’s more than clear where they’re going.  The fact that they aren’t taking her car is very suggestive, to start.  Means the area they’re driving to is difficult to park in, so much so that she’d rather take a cab than risk incurring another parking ticket.  So here they are, sitting in the cab, speeding toward their destination as quickly as New York traffic will allow them to.

            Joan watches the street out her window, and after some time she asks the cabbie to pull over.  He does, allowing her to disappear into a corner store.  Sherrinford taps his fingers against his knee, staring at the back of cabbie’s head.  “Ten dollars if you tell me where we’re going.”

            He gets a laugh in response.  “Not a chance, man.  She said you’d do that, offered me twenty.  I’ll spill the beans for twenty-five.”

            Sherrinford waves him off.  “Doesn’t matter.  I already know.”

            Thirty seconds later, Joan reenters the cab with a dozen roses wrapped in plastic, which she hands to Sherrinford as she buckles her seatbelt.  She tells the cabbie to keep going and then sits back, her mouth pressed into a smug little smirk.

            “Don’t you want these back?” Sherrinford asks.

            “Hold onto them,” she replies.  “They’re for you.”

            “Why, Watson, I didn’t know you cared,” he mutters.  The cab jerks to a halt at a red light, and the plastic crinkles as it comes into sudden contact with his left cheek.

            The artist currently known as Rebecca Rochelle (as he has taken to calling her in his mind) works at an upscale jazz club in a nice part of town.  Sherrinford surveys it as Joan pays the cabbie and tips him generously.  Not much to deduce about it.  A clean, well-lighted place for white-collar businesspersons to unwind after work, that’s all it is. He doesn’t want to go inside, not holding flowers and wearing a scowl, but Joan takes him by the arm and leads him in.

            There’s a small cover charge; Joan takes care of that, too.  Makes Sherrinford wonder just how much his father is paying her.  Perhaps she gets a stipend for taking him out on these adventures.  Good incentive.  After that’s finished, she tells Sherrinford to hand the flowers to the man at the door.

            “I’ve grown rather fond of them,” he protests.  She rolls her eyes and plucks them from his hand.

            “Can you see that these get to Rebecca Rochelle?” she asks the doorman.  “They’re from him.  He’s very shy.”

            “It’s terminal, hopefully,” Sherrinford adds, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

            The host just looks at him like he’s another lovesick idiot, perhaps the fifteenth one this week (he’s not, Joan has it _all wrong_ again), but takes the flowers and hands them off to one of the men behind the bar.  That man disappears into the back, and the host seats them.

            They’re early.  The music doesn’t start for a bit.  Sherrinford glances at the menu.  Cajun fusion.  _Expensive_.  His father _must_ be compensating Joan for this.  He can imagine their emails back and forth.  Joan would mention rising expenses, and his father’s reply would only be, “How much?”  Well, if it is his father’s money, he may as well take advantage, so he orders the most expensive thing on the menu.

            Joan gives him a look.  Not his father’s money, then.  Just as well.

            Other patrons trickle in, many men, some women, most having recently suffered a grueling day at work.  Sherrinford takes note of all of them, particularly the men, particularly the single men.  The _number_ of them.  It’s like they’re responding to a siren call.  But just as Sherrinford’s noticing this trend, the lights dim and their food arrives, piping hot and surprisingly tasty.  Sherrinford decides to focus on the cuisine instead of the stage or the other people.  “We’re leaving after her set,” he tells Joan, because it would be rude to leave in the middle.  “We’re not staying any longer than we have to.”

            “If you say so,” Joan whispers back, because the emcee is already announcing Rebecca Rochelle and her Four-Man Band.

            Sherrinford doesn’t want to look at her.  He doesn’t.  But he does.

            Her hair is more precise tonight, the curls tighter.  Diamonds sparkle in her ears.  Her cheeks are pink with blush, her lips red (again), her lashes thickened by mascara and penciled sharper with eyeliner. He remembers how she looked when he broke into her apartment and thinks he was lucky to have seen her like that because he knows that her looks aren’t just painted on.  The silver dress she wears is high in the back and low in the front, but not as low as it could be.  It’s long enough to conceal her shoes from view—they must be four-inch heels at least, she’s not that tall.  Clever thing, though, that she keeps so much of herself covered up.  She must know that concealing everything just makes your audience fantasize about what they can’t see.

            All this before she even opens her mouth to sing.

            She opens her set with only one of her purported “four-man band” onstage, at the piano, and he keeps the mood subdued while she sings “Stormy Weather.”  A safe song.  Classic.  Dates all the way back to the 1930s, if he recalls correctly.  Long history of success.  Safe.  Focus on the data and you’ll be safe.

            He can’t.  She really sells the heartsick thing.  Oh, of course it’s all very calculated—doesn’t come from a genuine place.  (Unwanted relief at that.)  Most people wouldn’t notice, but he does.  Her movements are precise, rehearsed.  It’s not instinctive for her to be moved by the content of the song.  A sigh, a flutter of her lashes, the pressing of her palms against one another, none of it is _real_.  She isn’t actually pining.

            And yet he’s captured by the nuance in it, in the spell she’s weaving.  The sway of her hips here, a well timed glance there.  She’s a genius.  No wonder she brought England to its knees.  No wonder half the audience is in love with her.

            Her eyes find him.  He swallows audibly.  This is not what he wanted.  The last thing he needs in his life, the very last, is _another_ bloody Irene.

            Sherrinford doesn’t touch his food again.  He doesn’t even notice when the lights go up, except that she’s disappeared from the stage.  When the host taps him on the shoulder, he practically jumps out of his skin.  Joan is watching him carefully.

            “Miss Rochelle would like to speak with you both,” says the host.

            They follow him through a door at the side of the stage.  Sherrinford doesn’t know why Joan looks like she’s just won a gold medal in something.  Olympic-level connivery, perhaps.  Does she not realize she’s only setting him up for failure again? No, of course not, otherwise she wouldn’t be pursuing this course of action.  And he can’t bring it up with her without revealing more than he’d like.

            Irene Adler is waiting for them in her dressing room.  It’s small, but it gets the job done.  She needs some place to store her gowns, apparently.  She’s already changed out of the silver dress for second half of her set; the one she’s wearing now is blue and shimmery.  Strapless, but she’s wrapped some sort of mink shawl around her shoulders.  Sherrinford tries to make a pattern out of that, to retreat into his own head—and then it dawns on him that he’s never seen her back or upper arms.  There we are, that’s something.

            “I wasn’t expecting to see you two again,” she says by way of greeting in her fake American accent.  She doesn’t sound unhappy, but then again, Joan is here too and appearances must be kept up.

            “We thought we’d come to hear you sing,” Joan says warmly.  Familiarly, even.  “You have a lovely voice.  I had no idea.”

            “I’m happy to surprise you,” Irene says mildly.  Oh, Sherrinford almost snorts at that.

            “Oh, no, I didn’t mean—”

            “I know.”  Irene smiles to neutralize the situation, and Joan, on instinct, smiles back.  Sherrinford wishes he had this gift, but everyone hones different talents.  “I’m glad you’re enjoying the performance.  Thank you for the flowers, they’re lovely.”

            The last is addressed to him.  He blinks.  “Oh,” he says.  “They’re from Miss Watson.”

            “Oh,” says Irene.  That bit surprises her a little.  She glances at Joan again, clearly not displeased to hear it.  There, that’s another wedge.  Not wanting to have sex at all was the first, obviously preferring women is the second.  Maybe Sherrinford should just keep repeating that to himself.  Gay and celibate, celibate and gay.  “How thoughtful.  Can I get either of you something to drink?”

            “Actually,” says Joan, a bit taken aback by Irene’s sudden attention, “I was going to head over to the bar.  Would you like me to bring anything back?  Water?”  A pause.  “For your throat.”  Yes, as if that weren’t already clear.  Bravo, Watson.

            “No, thank you.  I have all of the tea I need right here.”  She indicates a thermos on the table.  No, stop that.  That’s terribly endearing.  “Ask Mike for a special, I think you’ll like it.  Tell him it’s on me.”

            “That’s really not—”  Joan glances at Sherrinford, who is frowning at her.  “Thank you.  I’ll just wait for Sherlock outside.”

            “I won’t keep him long,” Irene promises.  Joan nods, and closes the door behind her.

            The first words out of Sherrinford’s mouth are, “This was not my idea.”

            “Evidently not,” Irene says, dropping the accent.  “I thought I was very clear that I had no intention of seeing you again.  At this rate, I’m going to need a restraining order.”

            “That won’t be necessary.  I have even less desire to see you.”  Not quite true.  He has plenty of desire, but it’s all misplaced.  He’s sexually attracted to her, certainly.  Once he notices that a woman is beautiful, he doesn’t stop noticing.  But he only asked about seeing her again because he thought there was a slim chance he could convince her he wasn’t a threat and talk her into a tryst after all.  Clearly not the case.  Celibate and gay.  He fears repeated visits will lead to romantic attraction, which the last burden he wants.  “I do have a couple of questions, though.”

            Irene raises an eyebrow.  “I’m listening.  I may not answer, but I’ll listen.  Won’t you have a seat, Mr. Holmes?”  She indicates the chair in front of her dressing table.

            “No, thank you.  This won’t take long.”

            “Suit yourself.” Irene crosses to the table and leans against it instead, and Sherrinford realizes that she had been trying to establish the balance of power.  Her heels must be killing her, but she won’t take them off unless he’s seated.  Too short otherwise.  This is her science.  Of course, standing by her dressing table also puts her closer to her purse, where she’s probably concealing her gun.

            Is she afraid of him?  She has no tangible reason to be.  Sherrinford isn’t going to act out.  He gets straight to the point.  “Earl Goodman and Jimmy Carmichael.” 

            Not what she was anticipating.  “That isn’t a question.”

            “You heard what happened.  Jimmy committed suicide, confessed to everything.  Must be convenient for you, not having to get directly involved with that whole business.”

            She’s amused.  “You don’t think I killed him, do you?”

            “Oh, no, no.”  Sherrinford laughs awkwardly, rocking back and forth on his heels.  “No, that would be quite the last-minute twist, wouldn’t it?  He definitely hanged himself, which is almost a shame because you would make a fine murderess.”  It’s not flirting if it’s the truth.  “I was just thinking—you must have known about the kidnapping plot.”

            Irene looks expectant, and he realizes he hasn’t phrased it as a question.  “I mean… weren’t you aware of their scheming, Miss Adler?”

            “I was.”

            “And you didn’t worry?” 

            “Should I have?”  She adjusts the ring on her finger.  He’d noticed it first when she was performing.  It kept catching the stage lights.  Now that he’s close to her again, he notices a few more things: she’s had minor cosmetic surgery on her nose and mouth, presumably to add to her disguise.  “They were planning to abduct me when I was travelling between the club and my flat.  I spoke to my manager and we increased security.  If they attempted anything, they would have been caught and… well.”  She shrugs.  “Either thrown in jail or severely beaten.  That part wasn’t entirely up to me.”

            He thinks he knows which option she would have preferred.  “I don’t believe you’re wrong, but how did you know _that_ was when they planned to abduct you?  They could have broken into your flat.”

            “Not easily.  Security is tight, Mr. Holmes.  You were lucky.”

            “Idiots rely on luck,” he says.

            “Either way, it’s simple deduction.  You should appreciate that.  Neither Earl nor Jimmy had the technical expertise or the resources to break into my flat, and they couldn’t very well take me off the stage.  It had to have been when I was traveling, and I only travel between my flat and the club.”

            Sherrinford isn’t expecting to hear that last bit.  He stares a little, openly.  Can’t help it.  “You… don’t go anywhere else?”

            “Not unless someone hacks my lawyer’s email account, no.”

            “Why not?”

            One small hand creeps up to rest against her shawl.  Defensive.  “Because it’s safe.”

            “It might be,” Sherrinford concedes.  He sees it now.  He didn’t see it before.  How could he not have noticed?  “It might be safe.  But you’re not happy.”

            “Perhaps not,” she says, “but I’m alive.” 

            “But what’s the point of being alive if you’re not taking full advantage of it?” he asks her.  Joan doesn’t understand it either.  How can Sherrinford rebound from his drug use so quickly?  Well, he isn’t dead, so he’ll devote his time to doing what he loves.  Simple as that.  “You’ve a brilliant mind, you don’t need to waste it on—this.”

            Irene inhales sharply.  “Mr. Holmes, if this is another attempt to convince me—”

            “I’m not suggesting you take up your old profession,” he says quickly, holding up his hands.  “From the looks of your flat, I doubt I could afford your going rate.  Besides, I’ve had plenty of success on Craigslist.  No real need to branch out.”  That disarms her a little.  She smiles again.  “I’m just saying, you should… do things.”  Is this Joan Watson rubbing off on him?  It’s not like Sherrinford to meddle.  He drops his hands.  “Truthfully, I don’t know what I’m saying.”

            “Well,” says Irene, no longer so on edge, “I will take your suggestion that I ‘do things’ under serious consideration.”

            “I’m happy to hear that.”  He nods at her.  “And now I think I’ll leave before I overstay my welcome any further.  Good night, Miss Adler.” 

            He turns to leave and nearly walks into the door.  Her laughter follows him down the hall.  It sounds, for all the world, like music. 

* * *

            His prayers for a case are answered the following evening.  He and Joan join Captain Gregson at the scene of the crime, a small park, because New York’s Finest can’t find the murder weapon.  The whole thing is fairly open and shut—it turns out to be accidental death, not homicide—but merely solving it puts him in a much better mood.

            He and Joan are walking away from the crime scene and are just about to duck under the glaringly yellow caution tape when he notices a woman sitting on a bench, left leg crossed over her right.  Strange thing, that, to sit on a bench by a crime scene.  Many people would be repelled by the thought of being in close proximity to a dead body.  Then he notices the way the police lights, red and blue, flash off of her dark, curly hair, and realizes who it is.

            This is not what he had in mind.  Still, it wouldn’t be polite to ignore her.   Then again, he isn’t polite.  Should he refuse to acknowledge her existence?  Joan hasn’t noticed.  He could just keep walking.

            No, too late.  Irene’s already noticed him noticing her and is coming over to the caution tape.  Sherrinford stops short behind it.  She stops in front.  Joan, who is about to ask him why they’ve stopped, finally spots Irene, looks between the two of them, and says nothing.

            The silence is unbearable.  Sherrinford says, “This is the first time I’ve seen you wearing trousers.”  Because it is.  That’s factual.  She’s also wearing some sort of short black cape thing, presumably to keep warm, and boots that stop just below her knee.  Heels again.

            “More practical for an adventure,” she tells him.

            “Those shoes aren’t.”

            “The shoes are practical for other things.”  She might mean that they add to her height, or she might mean that they’re the sort of heels she’d wear to walk all over him.  Or all over Joan.  Who can say?

            Sherrinford clears his throat.  “When I said you should ‘do things,’ this is not what I had in mind.”

            “I know,” Irene says, crossing her arms.  “You were probably thinking I should visit the library, or go to a play.  But this is safer—all these policemen around.”

            “Yes,” says Sherrinford.  “Blood-splattered crime scenes.  Very safe.”

            She cocks her head to the side.  “I don’t know if you knew, Mr. Holmes, but I like detective stories.  And detectives.”

            “Well,” says Sherrinford, unsure of how to respond to that and glad the relative darkness conceals the color in his cheeks.  “Well—well, then, do stop ogling Miss Watson, because she’s only a detective’s assistant.”

            “I don’t feel very ogled,” Joan volunteers. 

            Irene sighs, shakes her head.  “No, Mr. Holmes.  I wasn’t trying to flirt.  I simply meant that I find detectives interesting.  The things they see, the narratives they collect.  Every case is different.”  Sherrinford can tell she’s not lying by the spark in her eye.  She’s excited.  Moreover, her posture reveals that she does feel safe.  Not because of the police cars, perhaps, but because he was alone with her in her dressing room and behaved himself.  He’d need some time to unravel her issues with men, but she clearly has some.

            He looks back at her and realizes he doesn’t feel threatened either.  This is his element.  He’s on steadier ground here than he was in her club, in her apartment, or even in a neutral place like the café.  Moreover, her costume tonight doesn’t scream seduction.  His pulse is still far too quick, admittedly, but he can at least breathe.  Celibate and gay, remember that.  Conquer this.  If he proves to himself that he can conquer this, he’s that much closer to moving on.

            “We have some time to kill,” says Irene, leaning forward over the caution tape.  “So, the murder.  Tell me how it was done.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like many other characters [Seth](http://archiveofourown.org/users/h3rring/) and I write, Irene Adler as Rebecca Rochelle has a [personal Tumblr](http://lydiandominant.tumblr.com/), which she mostly just uses to collect art and photographs that she likes. It's incognito, so she isn't looking to be recognized, but she'll occasionally post fic-relevant things and answer asks.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and I'll (hopefully) see you soon!


	4. The Blog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place after _Elementary_ episode seven, "One Way to Get Off," in which we learn the fate of Sherrinford's original Irene Adler. It contains some fleeting but unpleasant descriptions of torture, so proceed with caution. It also contains rather inexplicit masturbation.

* * *

            Joan can’t sleep.  “Sherlock Holmes” has been sitting in her Google search bar for days, ever since she learned Irene’s name.  She sees it there anytime she goes to check her email, to read the news, to look something up on Wikipedia.  There it is, the easy way out.

            She can’t be sure that looking Sherlock up on the Internet will tell her anything she doesn’t already know.  Besides, if she learns anything new, she wants it to be because he tells her of his own volition.  Forcing answers out of him will clearly cause him to keep pushing her away.

            The main problem is that no matter what she does, no matter how many cases she helps him with, he won’t trust her.  Joan thought that setting him up with a woman he was clearly interested in would get her some brownie points, but apparently she was wrong.  At least the Rebecca thing didn’t end in disaster.  They’re friends now, or something like friends.  As close as Sherlock gets to friends.  That’s good—that sets a good foundation for stability when the recovery period is officially up.

            But Joan is working with limited time.  She won’t be with Sherlock much longer, and she needs to know that he won’t relapse after she leaves.  Once she walks out the door, he’s technically no longer her problem, but she’s not going to fail _again_.  She refuses to fail again.  And if she goes and he relapses, she’s failed.

            To make certain that he won’t relapse, she needs to know what his life was like before his addiction spiraled out of control and then arrange things for him so history won’t repeat itself.  He told her Irene died, but _how_?  Does he blame himself for it?  Did he not have any other support systems in place when he turned to drugs?  These are missing pieces to the Sherlock puzzle that she doesn’t have yet.

            An Internet search might turn up nothing, it’s true.  He probably doesn’t have an _actual_ Facebook; that’s the sort of person he is.  But searching the Internet was one of the first tricks he taught her, and… well, it’s not that invasive.  It’ll only turn up public information.  If she uncovers anything, she can wait for him to tell her, but at least this way she’ll know and be able to act on that knowledge.

            After much deliberation, Joan clicks “Search.”  The search returns more links than she expected it would.  She selects the first one, figuring that would be the ideal place to start.

            She spends the next hour reading.  When she’s done, she shuts her laptop and goes downstairs.  She knows she’ll find Sherlock in the living room.

* * *

            “Who is John Watson?”

            Sherrinford very nearly has a heart attack.  There’s only so much he can take.  First Irene—and he hadn’t known if she’d meant his Irene or the artist currently known as Rebecca Rochelle—and now John Watson.  This is just not his week.

            He clears his throat.  “Ah,” he says.  “I see you haven’t lost your gift for research, Miss Watson.”

            “Don’t ‘Miss Watson’ me,” says Joan.  “There’s a _John_ Watson in England with more than a year’s worth of blog posts about you, and I want you to tell me what that means.”

            “You know,” says Sherrinford, “it’s actually a long story—” 

            “ _Now_.”

            Arms crossed.  Back straight.  Vocal tone sharp: not a whisper, not a shout.  Assertive body language all over.  She means business.  This would all be much more intimidating if she weren’t in her pajamas.  Admittedly, he wasn’t expecting anyone to find John Watson’s blog so soon (much less Joan Watson, who was supposed to be only a fleeting presence in his life) but he supposes telling Joan about Irene was not enough to slake her massive thirst for details about his personal life.  It is what it is.  He has to deal with this now.

            “All right, so, my John Watson,” Sherrinford begins.  He takes a deep breath.  Luckily, he familiarized himself with his brother’s biographer—and all of the other details of Sherlock’s life—whilst in rehab.  “We lived together for a time, as you’ve seen.  Platonically.  We were flatmates.  Although, thinking about it, I do suspect he was rather taken with me by the end.  It tends to happen with prolonged exposure.  That’s why you should get out while you still can, Watson.”

            Joan rolls her eyes.  “Stay on topic.  John Watson thinks you’re dead.” 

            “Well, he also thinks that Irene’s under a witness protection scheme. Here in America, even.  He didn’t mention that bit on the blog, but that’s what he said to me.”  The words sting, but they’re true.  Apparently, the official story the British government’s spewing is that Sherlock’s Irene _is_ under a witness protection scheme—but her file, which he dug up and read, clearly has her marked down as “deceased.”  (He learned her birth name from her file, too, the name her parents gave her, the name she used before she was Irene Adler.  He can see why she decided to go with something less ethnic.  “Adler,” while also a Jewish surname, is much more generic.  Still, it is a very small world that she should choose that name, of all names…)

            “So she’s not under a witness protection scheme,” Joan says.

            He looks up.  She’s sitting down in front of him.  When had that happened?  He can’t afford to lose track of the conversation; this situation is far too precarious.  “Obviously not.  I told you what became of her.”

            “I know, I just thought…”  Joan interlaces her fingers.  Pursuing the matter now is making her uncomfortable.  Good.  It should.  “I thought you might be trying to protect her.”

            “No.”  Yes and no.  Protecting Sherlock’s Irene, yes.  His Irene doesn’t need protecting anymore.   Listen to this!  His Irene, Sherlock’s Irene.  Has the possessive ever been _less_ appropriate?  Maybe he should say “the Irene who meant something to Sherlock,” because she clearly had.  No, that’s too long.  Sherlock’s Irene it is.  Awkwardly, it appears that he and his brother share a type.

            He must have said “no” a little too sharply, because Joan falls silent.  She looks down at her hands.  No longer so assertive.  When she looks back at him, she says quietly, “John Watson thinks you’re dead.” 

            “As he must.”  This is an easy, prepared reply.  “John was—to put it lightly, he was invested in my wellbeing, my sobriety included.  I couldn’t allow him to see what was happening to me.”

            “Why?”

            Sherrinford taps his fingers against the armrest.  Joan leans back, her mouth in forming a perfect “o.”  “You cared about him,” she says.  “Or at least about what he thought of you.  Is that right?”

            Armchair psychiatry again, this time from a literal armchair.  She’s not wrong, though.  Well, she is wrong about him, as he’s never met John Watson, but not about Sherlock.  Glancing off to the side, Sherrinford says, “It doesn’t much matter anymore.”

            “Did you think having me as a sober companion would make the transition easier?”  An abrupt query.  That draws his attention back to her.  He furrows his brow, and she clarifies, “Well, I mean, taking me along on cases, calling me ‘Watson,’ it must feel familiar.”

            “No, not at all.”  The possibility horrifies him a bit.  As Joan and John Watson have proved, one Watson is very unlike another.  Sherrinford had seen his brother with his Watson (possessive more than appropriate here) a couple of times, always from afar, and it would have been obvious even to someone who lacked his keen sense of perception that the two men cared for each other very deeply.  His relationship to Joan is not comparable in the slightest.  “My father’s sense of humor, when it manifests, does so cruelly.  This is his idea of a joke at my expense.”

            “Oh.”  Joan is clearly unsure of what to make of that.  Not allowing herself time to dwell, though, as she still has more questions.  Efficient.  He’s said that before.  Joan Watson is nothing if not efficient.  “So, Moriarty.”

            “So, Moriarty.”

            “Moriarty,” Sherrinford repeats.

            “Was Moriarty real?”

            “James Moriarty was very real,” Sherrinford says firmly. Even though he and Sherlock are estranged, he doesn’t want Joan thinking his brother is a fraud—that he himself is a fraud.  Sherlock doesn’t deserve that.  “But more than that, he was convenient.  He provided a reason for my untimely exit from this mortal coil.  I’d been searching for a means—a means of getting away—for months, and Moriarty was more than happy to provide one.  I doubt he was expecting me to hijack his plan in that way… but he’s not around to care, now is he?” 

            “Hijack his plan,” Joan says.  “You jumped off a building.  _That_ ’s hijacking his plan?”

            “Yes.  I survived it, did I not?” 

            “ _How_?”

            “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,” Sherrinford says.  In reality, he’s not quite sure how Sherlock managed it.  He’s sure he’ll figure it out someday, but it’s not high on his list of priorities right now.  “What if an encore is required?”

            “Oh, no,” says Joan. “I mean, I hope not.”

            The way she says it makes Sherrinford laugh a bit.  He probably needs to laugh, just to bleed off a little bit of the tension.  Joan joins in for a split second, likely overwhelmed by the ridiculousness of it all.  That makes Sherrinford stop.  She stops.  They look at each other.

            Joan says, “I’m just surprised no one’s noticed.  I mean, there are a ton of articles about you, publicity photos…”

            “None of which have made it across the pond,” Sherrinford points out.  “Sherlock Holmes may have been a household name in London, but he isn’t in New York, and I’m keeping it that way.”

            “Yeah.”  Joan runs a hand through her hair.   “You know, I barely recognized you in that hat.” 

            “Oh, god, the hat.”  Sherrinford sighs, exasperated.  “John Watson called it a ‘Sherlock Holmes hat.’  I could never understand why the public was so mad about it.” 

            “John Watson,” Joan repeats, levity gone.  “Everything else is—I mean, it’s illegal, but that’s not important to me, not with all the good you’re doing.  I can understand wanting to clean out your closet, even if this is an extreme way of doing it.  Your father’s clearly in on the plan, and… it’s working, as far as I can tell.  You’re recovering.  But John Watson deserves to know you’re alive.”

            He knew she was going to say that, and he slumps in his seat.  “Not now.”

            “It’s important,” Joan insists.  “Sherlock, his last blog entry—I mean, he was clearly devastated by your death.  If you reached out to him—”

            “Then _what_?”  Then John would probably beat the stuffing out of him for impersonating his brother.  Not the happy ending Joan’s envisioning.  “He’d want me to go back to London.  I can’t do that.  The bad memories just overflow.”  He swallows, makes it look really convincing.  “We both need this time to heal, Watson.  I’m ready to move on, and I’m certain he’s reached that summit too.  I’ll contact him when the time is right—and when I’m sure he won’t throttle me for lying.”

            “But you _will_ contact him.”

            “I will.” He won’t, but she won’t be around to know that.  “In my own time.”

            “All right,” says Joan, appearing to accept this as a semi-reasonable reaction.  “For the record, I’m glad you didn’t shut me out when I asked you for an explanation.”

            “Well, you did an excellent job of backing me into a corner,” Sherrinford says with mock cheer.

            “No, I mean, thank you for being honest with me.  You didn’t have to.”

            “Oh.”

            “I’m going to bed,” she announces, standing.  “This is a lot to process, I’ll need a little time.”

            Sherrinford doesn’t say anything until she’s walked passed him.  At that point, he tells her, “I know you’re just going to be reading up on me.  You won’t sleep for another two hours.”  She doesn’t reply, though, and he curls his knees to his chest and returns to staring into the fire. 

            There’s something profoundly unfair about Sherlock’s life, and how it’s more interesting than his, and how it has happier endings (or will, after Sherlock returns to the spotlight).  Sherlock and his Watson had a vibrant, cooperative relationship, and whatever the artist now known as Rebecca Rochelle was to Sherlock, she’s alive.  His Irene is—out of reach.  Gone.  Permanently.  He doesn’t trust his Watson as far as he can throw her.  And god, _god_ , why will no one give him a case involving weaponized hallucinogens and a theoretical runaway mutant dog instead of murder after murder after murder?

            He watches the fire writhe and thinks that he probably won’t be sleeping for a while, either.

* * *

            Irene Adler regularly goes to bed around one in the morning.  No point in turning in earlier when she’s out that late three nights a week.  Sleep at one, wake at nine or ten, arise feeling rested enough, hop on the elliptical machine in the den.  She has to mind her figure if she wants to keep her job.

            Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays are her performance days.  Today—yesterday—was a Friday.  Irene didn’t leave her apartment at all.  It was a lovely day, but chilly, so she opened the curtains in the living room but kept the windows shut and lounged in the sun doing research on her laptop.  Susanna, the woman who cooks, cleans, and does odd jobs for her, says she needs to get out more often.  Now that Sherrinford Holmes has voiced his opinion on the matter, she’s decided that an extra day out now and then won’t harm her.

            Today she stayed in, though.  She showered and put a robe on afterward and sat in the stale, filtered sunlight reading articles about some unusual disturbances in Eastern Europe.  Someone’s taking down crime bosses, it seems.  Must be someone unnaturally clever to get so much done in so little time.

            She’s restless by her usual bedtime.  When she spends the day researching, she typically is.  It’s not a physical restlessness—her stamina isn’t what it used to be—but mental: not enough stimuli, not enough puzzles.  Reading exercises her mind, but people are her puzzles.  Depriving herself of them is practical, yes, but maddening.

            When Irene crawls into bed, she knows she’s too wound up to sleep.  That’s not unusual nowadays.  She typically just stares at the ceiling until it blurs before her eyes.  Lying there, though, against her pillows and expensive sheets (cotton, not silk; white, not black), she thinks she’ll try to masturbate.

            It’s been what, a month since she last attempted this?  Perhaps two.  Probably about time to give it another go.  After all, it’s not an involved process.  She’s never been terribly romantic with herself.  No need for scented candles, Harlequin novels, or warm baths.  A little straightforward stimulation goes a long way.

            She lets her hand trail down her stomach, and lower.  She knows from her previous (unsuccessful) attempts that she can’t think about herself when she’s doing this.  If she thinks about herself, she’s destined to fail.  Someone else, then.  Perhaps Sherrinford Holmes’ pretty companion?  Joan Watson is straight, but that doesn’t matter in the realm of fantasy.  Besides, it wouldn’t be the first time Irene’s confused a straight woman.  What might be more of an impediment is the fact that Joan is so frigid.  Probably would take a little bit of warming up… yes, there.  Like that.

            “Good,” she murmurs.  “Good girl.  You’re doing well.”  She’s not sure if she’s talking to the Joan Watson she’s conjured up in her mind, or to herself.

            Irene is right-handed.  That hand isn’t very steady these days.  She feels it trembling a bit as she touches herself.  Her captors in Karachi broke that wrist early on when she wouldn’t tell them what they wanted to hear.  That angered the man paying them, the person who had set all of this up.  She remembers overhearing that phone call, that voice—the interrogator took the call right in front of her.  “Don’t break any more bones,” James Moriarty said, irate and then calm, merely annoyed.  “That’s the problem with you mercenaries, no understanding of elegance.  I’m sure you could figure out other ways to make her talk.  Why don’t you give her a taste of her own medicine instead?” 

            That evening, a doctor came to set her wrist.  He did a good job—by the time Sherlock Holmes arrived six weeks later, it had healed.  She didn’t beg the doctor to smuggle her out, because she doesn’t beg and any pleas would have fallen upon deaf ears.  She did thank him.  He looked at her like she was a dog someone had kicked, like she wasn’t even human.

            The following morning, the interrogator whipped her so hard she bled.  Taste of her own medicine indeed.  She didn’t talk. 

            She bears those scars still.  No matter how much vitamin E she rubs on them, they remain.  Scars on her back, her shoulders.  She hates them, just as she hates the way her joints ache when it’s going to rain, like they’re an old woman’s joints.  Not hers.  She’s only thirty-two.  She hates her joints almost as much as she hates the way her vision plays tricks on her, because she could swear there are still bruises on her thighs even though it’s been almost a year.  When she was still the darling of London’s fetish circles, she’d inspect the space between her legs with a hand mirror to make sure that it was clean, that there was no razor burn, no trace of hair.  Now she just shaves without looking, because she’s afraid of what she might see.  Maybe there’s a mark of some sort down there.  Maybe she’s running her fingers over it right now as she rubs her hand back and forth.  Maybe—

            Oh, no, she can’t, she _can’t_.  She stops, sits up, stumbles out of bed, nauseated.  She makes it to the lavatory just before she vomits. 

            Susanna’s going to be cross, she thinks, as she wipes off her mouth with a piece of toilet paper.  She’s always getting on Irene’s case about eating enough.  She’d probably have a heart attack if she knew that Irene couldn’t keep her food down.

            With that thought to ground her, Irene stands shakily and splashes cold water on her face.  She walks to the kitchen on autopilot and fetches a glass of water.  The water is cold, but her throat burns when she swallows.

            Maybe she can try to sleep again after a few minutes.  She isn’t sure.  She’s all nerves and tremors and she needs to get it out somehow.  She doesn’t trust herself enough to be alone.

            She retrieves her mobile from her purse and carries it back to bed with her.  She doesn’t have many numbers programmed in.  A handful.  Her manager at the club, a few people to call if she’s in trouble… and then other numbers that she’s collected for personal reasons.  Is it wise to—doesn’t matter.  He’ll likely be awake.  His type is, at this hour.

            The phone rings once.  Twice.  He’s debating whether to answer, probably.  Mentally reviewing his list of contacts.  Who would be calling now, and from an unknown number?  What a mystery.  Three times.  If he doesn’t pick up, she’ll be very cross.  Oh, she doesn’t need him, specifically, just a human voice.  Just something to prevent her from being alone with her thoughts.  Just something to remind her she isn’t alone in the world.

            Four times, and then a click.  “Sherlock Holmes,” he says.

            “Liar,” she replies, feeling a bit better already.  He answered when she called.

            “Oh,” says Sherrinford.  “It’s you.  Hello.”

            Funnily enough, he doesn’t use her name—either name.  He doesn’t call her “Miss Adler” or “Miss Rochelle.”  She wonders if Joan is within earshot, and decides she doesn’t care.  “It is me,” she says.  “I was curled up in bed, all alone, and I thought I’d give you a call.”

            “A—ha.”  Oh, flustered already.  He’s playing the gentleman, though, so he doesn’t pursue that line of inquiry.  “How did you get my number?”

            “It’s easy to make friends with policemen,” Irene says cockily.  When she slips back into her old role, she fools even herself.  “As I was leaving the crime scene last week, I ran into one of your colleagues, Detective Bell.  I said I wasn’t comfortable heading home unaccompanied at that time of night, and he was just finishing up with the cleanup and offered to escort me.”  She hums.  “I know a good man when I see one, Mr. Holmes.”

            “Yes, Bell is fairly—reliable,” Sherrinford says, sounding a bit strained.  “Not a bad choice of an escort.”

            “Well, when we reached my flat I realized I left something with you and needed to reach you somehow to get it back.  He gave me your number, and generously supplied his own.”

            “Have you called him?”

            “Not yet.”  She sighs.  Sherrinford shouldn’t have even bothered asking.  “And I can’t say I plan to.”

            “You’re a very bad woman,” says Sherrinford, but there’s admiration in his tone.  “Is it a hobby of yours to string along well-meaning detectives?”

            “I’m hoping it’s a phase I’ll outgrow,” Irene replies.  “But there’s something charming about well-meaning detectives.  They’re like—oh, I don’t know—puppies?  Moreover, I’ve noticed that they tend to like _me_.”

            “Regardless,” says Sherrinford, sounding eager to get off the subject, “it’s a bit late to call.”

            “Is it?” 

            “It’s two in the morning.”

            “You weren’t asleep.”

            “I wasn’t,” he concedes.  “Going by your schedule, you ought to be, though.  What are you doing?”

            Irene traces a circle in the sheets with her finger.  _I spooked myself and don’t want to be alone_ is not an acceptable response in this context.  Any response that admits vulnerability is never an acceptable response.  “I’m thinking of things I’ve lost,” she says.  That’s sufficiently vague.  She’s lost many things and some of them are decidedly unimportant.  She left several pairs of designer shoes in London that she’ll never get back.  “You don’t have a case on.  What were _you_ doing?”

            “How do you know I don’t have a case?”

            “I’ve been keeping track.”

            “Of me?  I’m flattered.”  A rustle of fabric as he shifts.  She waits patiently for an answer to her question.  He doesn’t disappoint.  “I was… engaged in something similar.  Thinking of things lost.”

            “Dreary way to spend a Friday evening.”

            “I’d say it’s Saturday morning, now,” says Sherrinford.

            Irene props her head up on her free hand.  “Whatever it is, we both know you’d rather be spending it with me.”

            The slightest inhale from the other end of the line.  Irene wonders if she shouldn’t have said that, but then decides it isn’t worth worrying about since they both know it’s true.  Might have been unwise for other reasons, though.  Holmes boys are fun to bait, and this one’s already half in love with her, which could end poorly.  But Sherrinford is safe.  She can tell just by looking that he’d never harm her, not physically, at least.  She can outpace him mentally, poor thing.  He’s not his brother.

            She misses being adored without fearing adoration.  She misses being so used to having people look at her that their gazes roll off her back like so many raindrops.  When she’s onstage, she gets a taste, because her stage persona is seductive and invincible, but the minute the lights dim, she’s afraid to leave her dressing room alone.  And that’s no way to live.

            Sherrinford clears his throat.  “Admittedly, I could use some form of non-Watson company.”

            “Is she giving you trouble?”

            “More than usual, believe it or not.”  A pause.  Irene can picture him scratching at the back of his neck.  “She, err, found John Watson’s blog.”

            “Oh, dear.”  Irene turns over onto her back.  “So you’ve some explaining to do, then.”

            “A lot of explaining.”

            “Did it go well?”

            “As well as I could have hoped,” says Sherrinford.  “She wants me to tell John Watson that I’m not dead.  I told her I’d do it in my own time, ‘my own time’ in this case meaning ‘never.’”  He sighs.  “My head is pounding.  I’d welcome a distraction.”

            Irene smiles.  He can’t see her, of course, but it should be obvious in her tone.  “Well, I’m not sure what sort of distraction you have in mind…”

            “The purest sort, I assure you.”

            “A mental exercise, then.”  Irene shifts her legs against the sheets.  Not silk, no, but smooth anyway.  Funny how the _right_ kind of attention can make you feel beautiful.  “If I were in your house right now, what would you do?  Keep it pure.”

            “You’re a chaste soul, how could I not?”  The sound of something bumping against the phone.  Perhaps he ran his free hand over his chin.  Then: “A massage, I think.”

            “Oh?”

            “To help you relax,” he explains.  “I’ve been told I have nimble fingers.  For—massaging, I didn’t mean anything—”

            “I know.”

            “Thoughts of lost things can make a person very tense,” he says, a bit more quietly.  “I’d like to help relieve that tension, if you’d allow me.”

            She falls silent, unsure of what to say.  Wasn’t quite expecting this.  Oh, she knows he likes her, and she knows that he’s _safe_ , but apparently that goes further than she thought.  “What would you ask in return?”

            “Only that you tell me exactly where you want my hands,” he says, “so I can be as useful to you as possible.”

            “A tool.”

            “Yes, that’s it.  In fact, I would be most gratified if you thought of me merely as a very sophisticated back massager.”

            “And I’m to use you as I see fit.”

            “Just so,” Sherrinford says.  “I am entirely at your disposal.”

            Irene wonders if she should stop this, but this is the most fun she’s had in a very long time.  She can afford to indulge.  He’s not for her, anyway.  “Then start at the nape of my neck, circling your thumbs,” she says, adopting a long-neglected tone of voice.  “That’s where I feel it the most.”

            “I can tell.”  His breath’s a little more audible.  It’s all right.  They’re not even in the same room.  “Very tense, as I hypothesized before.”

            “You forgot the most important part.”

            “Hm?  Oh.”  A loud exhale.  “I can tell, _Miss Adler_.”

            “Good.  When you’re done there, work your way out along my shoulders.”

            “As you wish,” he says.  She finds herself closing her eyes as she listens to him.  “I want to be thorough, though, so I’ll go slowly to start with.”

            “You’ll go as slowly or as quickly as I want you to go,” she says firmly, “and I say you’re done with my neck.”

            “Shoulders, then, Miss Adler?”

            “Shoulders.” 

            He’s quiet for a moment.  She brings up her free hand, trails her fingers along her left shoulder.  “I can work down your back,” he offers.

            She’d never let him see her back if he were here.  He’s not here.  It’s harmless.  “Slowly now,” she says.  “Start by pressing your thumbs below my shoulder blades, then follow my spine.  Down to my lower back, but no farther.”

            “Understood, Miss Adler.”  He’s lost in the imagery, she can tell.  She can’t hear him breathing as loudly anymore.  She realizes it’s because her breathing is heavy, too.  “I’ve found a knot, do I have permission to work at it?” 

            “You do.”

            “Slowly, still?”

            “Yes.”

            “All right, Miss Adler,” he says.  “These things are best dealt with slowly.  I may have to apply a bit of extra pressure, the slightest amount, right _here_.”

            She gasps—a fluttering gasp that might easily be confused for a moan.  It shocks them both out of their reverie.  Instinctively, she draws her bedcovers up past her chest, but of course he isn’t here to see her.  He’s in his house, on the other side of the city, and she has to redeem the situation right away.

            “Would you like anything else?” he asks, now sounding supremely unsure.

            “Yes, in fact,” she says, commanding as ever.  Redeem the situation.  “Joan Watson’s phone number.”

            A pause, and then he says jovially, “Oh, you had me going there for a minute.” 

            “Well, I’m very good.”

            “Very good,” he agrees, “at being very bad.  Do you have a pen?” 

            “Just a moment.”

            Irene finds a pen and a pad of paper, and jots the number down as he recites it.  She’ll save it in her phone later.  For now, she says, “Thank you.  For the massage too, I suppose.”

            “You’re very welcome,” Sherrinford replies.  “Anytime you need a pretend massage, just give me a call.”

            “I think that’s the sweetest thing you’ve said to me yet.  Do you mean it?”

            “Unfortunately, I believe I do.”  A hint of bitterness.  He doesn’t want to be attracted to her any more than she wants to be attracted to him.  Past relationship gone sour, no doubt.  Sadly, he’s at a disadvantage here.  She’s the right sex to ensnare him; his body alone holds no appeal for her.  “Good night, Miss Adler.”

            “Good night, Sherrinford Holmes,” she says.  “I’ll find you at a crime scene.”

            “I look forward to it,” he replies.  “Sleep well.”

            “You, too, Sherry darling.” 

            “No, wait, don’t you dare call me—” 

            Irene hangs up before he can finish admonishing her, grinning from ear to ear.  Maybe tonight wasn’t a nightmare, or even a waste.  Maybe she’s still got it, whatever “it” happens to be.  All she knows is that, in that moment, she doesn’t hate herself at all.


	5. The Threat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place shortly after _Elementary_ episode eight, "The Long Fuse."

* * *

            No one ever mentions how much singers sweat during a performance.  Not because of nerves, oh no, not if it’s a seasoned performer like Irene Adler, but because of the stage lights beating down from above.  She can layer on sweat-repellent deodorant where it really counts, but her forehead will still be damp by the end of the evening. It doesn’t help that she tends to wear fur stoles and shawls during her performances to cover her back and arms.

            There’s more than one disadvantage to the lighting.  While it enables her audience to see her, she has a much more difficult time seeing them.  She’s able to make out the faces of those at the tables nearest her, often regulars, but those farther back are obscure.  At the moment, she’s squinting at a man just beyond her field of vision.  His silhouette bothers her.  The silhouettes of jazz club patrons are normally nonthreatening, and this man’s is no exception: he’s lounging in his chair, relaxed, occasionally tapping his finger along to the music as he watches her.  But there’s something awfully familiar in the way he’s sitting.  Irene’s memory for body language is exceptional, and if she recognizes him, he might recognize her.  She needs to get off of the stage as quickly as possible. 

            Luckily, this is the last song of the set.  She smiles through it, thanks the audience for being wonderful as she always does, blows a kiss, waves goodbye, and then scurries down the ramp and out of the spotlight as quickly as she can in her heels.  One of the waiters, Dan, is ready to intercept her at the bottom.

            “Miss Rochelle,” he says, “there’s a man who wants a word.” 

            “Oh, Daniel,” she sighs, still walking at a fast clip toward the door, “there are always men who want words.”

            “I wish I had your life, Miss Rochelle,” Dan replies, grinning at her.  He’s fresh out of university, an aspiring Broadway star.  His boyfriend broke up with him last week.  Good sport that he is, he hasn’t said a word about it.  Wears his heart on his sleeve, though, or maybe it just looks that way to her.  “He says he’s an old friend of yours, though.  Mr. Magnussen?”

            Irene’s tempted to stop, but knows she can’t.  She and Dan push through the door and into the back hall.  “Mr. _Charles_ Magnussen?” she asks breathlessly.

            “Dunno.  He just said you’d know him.”

            “All right, thank you.”  She exhales, her heart beating a bit too fast, but fixes a smile on her face as she turns to vanish into her dressing room.  Although she wants to, she can’t let her frustration show.  “Send him back in a minute.  I’ll need some time to freshen up—”

            But when she opens the door, he’s already inside, waiting for her. 

            Charles Augustus Magnussen wouldn’t look like a threatening man to most people, but most people don’t know how to look.  Well in his middle age, Magnussen looks like a man who has lived well and spared no expense to do so.  A casual observer might notice his fine clothes and feel a touch of animosity, as people often do with the very rich, but that would end with his welcoming smile and the friendly, familiar wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.  Magnussen has the tendency to greet new acquaintances like trusted companions, and it’s therefore easy to focus on his handshake and overlook his eyes, hard and cold and glittering as they size up his next victim, determining his or her—usually her—greatest weakness.

            “Daniel,” Irene says carelessly, as if she had been expecting to see Magnussen there all along, “fetch my friend a glass of our finest wine.  Tell the bartender it’s on me.”

            “There’s no need for that,” Magnussen says, smiling broadly.  “I don’t intend to impose on you for very long.”

            “That’s fine.  Leave us then, Daniel.”

            Dan nods, looking a bit confused, but closes the door, leaving them alone.  Irene breezes past Magnussen to her dressing table so she can have a sip from her thermos and verify that her handgun is in her purse.  At this time of night, her tea’s already gone lukewarm.  “Won’t you have a seat, Mr. Magnussen?” she asks.

            He nods his thanks and takes the room’s only chair, making a great show of removing his coat and getting comfortable.  Irene leans against her dressing table, regarding him steadily.  He beams at her even as his eyes harden further behind his glasses.  “My dear, I had no idea you had such a lovely singing voice.”

            “And I had no idea you frequented jazz clubs in New York City,” Irene replies, lapsing back into her own accent. 

            “In all honestly, Miss Adler, this music isn’t much to my taste—I have tickets to the Metropolitan Opera tomorrow evening so I can cleanse my palate—but a friend of mine, whose opinion I hold in high esteem, told me that I shouldn’t miss the young woman who performs here on Tuesdays, since I happened to be in town.  I show up and, well, here you are.” 

            “What a coincidence.”  Irene sets her thermos down and rests her hands against the edge of her dressing table.   It hadn’t been a coincidence at all.  “But you’re right, here I am.  What are you intending to do?”

            “Do?” Magnussen repeats.

            “Don’t play games with me, Mr. Magnussen.” 

            “I wouldn’t dream of it,” says Magnussen, and he removes his glasses to polish the lenses with a handkerchief from his pocket.  “We are masters of the same trade, after all, although your methods of information-gathering involved a bit more theatricality, did they not?” 

            “I’m retired,” Irene snaps.

            “Yes,” Magnussen says placidly, replacing his glasses.  “That will happen when you bite off much more than you can chew, my dear.  An unfortunate thing, most unfortunate.  You do seem to have built a new life for yourself here.  That’s admirable.”

            “A life you’re planning to disrupt, no doubt.”  The corners of her lips curl up in a farce of a smile.  “What will it be, Mr. Magnussen?  An anonymous tip to the FBI?  MI6?  Irene Adler is alive and this is where you’ll find her?”

            “Come now, Miss Adler, there’s no need to be cross.”  Magnussen presses his palms together.  “I could contact either of those organizations easily, yes, but what would I stand to gain from that?  Aside from the knowledge that I’ve put a threat to British and American national security behind bars, that is.  No, no, I’m not that dutiful of a citizen, I’m afraid.  However, I am aware of a person who would value your reacquisition… a friend of yours, to be more precise, back in London.  I hear he’s been very lonely since his previous companion perished.”

            Irene does not allow herself to react to that outwardly, but her chest tightens.  “I know the man,” she says, enunciating all of her words slowly and precisely.  “What would you stand to gain from that?”

            “Your star is falling, Miss Adler.  Has fallen.  His is rising—although it would be rising faster if he were more adept at pest control.  Someone by the name of Jeremy Sigerson is causing him trouble, I hear.  Regardless, the fact is that I have more to gain by appeasing Sebastian Moran, the heir to Moriarty’s empire, than I have to lose by upsetting you.”

            For a long while, Irene says nothing.  There’s nothing to say.  Her jaw’s sealed shut.  She’s been doused in a bucket of ice water.  She notices Magnussen taking an interest in how white her knuckles have gone as she clutches the table and hears him say, as if from a distance, “I notice that you’ve distanced yourself somewhat from your previous _modus operandi_ , Miss Adler.”

            Irene inhales, exhales, and finds her voice again.  “I’m not about to offend you with seduction attempts, Mr. Magnussen.  I know what a determined businessman you are.”  Then, folding her arms over her chest, she asks, “How much?”

            He names his price.

            She clicks her tongue.  “I’m afraid I can’t do that for you.”

            “You were worth a considerable amount of money before your death,” Magnussen says.  “To my knowledge, that fortune disappeared with you.”

            “Even if I still had that money,” Irene says cautiously, “it wouldn’t amount to what you’re asking for.”

            “But you’re a shrewd investor, I’m sure.  And no doubt you have property in the city,” Magnussen continues with something like a smirk.  “I can’t imagine you settling for anything less, Miss Adler.  That would make up some of the deficit.  And your dress—very lovely, might I say—but certainly one only needs so many designer clothes?  I don’t think my offer is unreasonable.”

            Irene takes a breath.  She isn’t about to auction off her clothes to appease some blackmailer, but she’s very quickly running out of options.  “How long do I have?”

            Magnussen pulls his phone out of his pocket, checking his calendar.  “I leave for the Continent Thursday evening…”

            “Two days, then.”  She crosses her arms.  “That’s hardly generous.”

            His smile is almost apologetic.  “You’ll have to forgive me, Miss Adler,” he says, “but given your record, I’m afraid you’ll try to bolt.”

            She raises her eyebrows and forces a smile.  “You wound me, Mr. Magnussen.  You know what they say about honor among thieves.”

            “I know very well,” says Magnussen placidly.  “They say there is none.”

            “As has clearly been demonstrated tonight,” says Irene, uncrossing her arms so her hands can rest against her table once again.  “I trust you can show yourself out.”

* * *

             Sherrinford Holmes is not expecting a knock on his door at one in the morning.  In fact, he’s certain no sane and reasonable person expects a knock on the door at one in the morning.  True, his line of work does sometimes entail late-night interruptions, but the police usually phone ahead.  If Gregson took it upon himself to show up in person, that would mean the situation was dire indeed.

            No, no.  Three knocks, loud, deliberate, yes, but not nearly forceful enough to be Gregson.  Likely not a man at all, in fact.  Probably a woman who has the wrong address.  He only assumes that because it would be _highly_ unlikely that—

            Highly unlikely, so of course Irene Adler’s standing there when he opens the door.

            Something is obviously wrong, though.  Her face is very pale, and she’s mislaid her hat; of course she _had_ a hat, it’s raining hard and her coat doesn’t have a hood.  A woman like her wouldn’t risk her hair in this sort of weather.  An umbrella or a hat, then.  Taking into account her usual apparel, he thinks a hat that matched her coat would not be out of the question, although of course she might have had an umbrella as well.  Peeking out under her coat collar he catches a glimpse of something sparkly.  One of her performance dresses.  But she wouldn’t wear that outside of the club, not in this weather.  So she left in such a hurry that she didn’t have time to change… and that she forgot her hat.

            “You’ve mislaid your hat,” he says out loud, waiting for confirmation of his hypothesis.

            “You’ve mislaid your shirt,” she tells him.

            He looks down.  So he has.

            “I know it’s around here somewhere,” he calls as he dashes back into the living room.  He hears her step inside and close the door behind her.  The click of her heels on his floor is all too audible.

            “I’ve seen shirtless men before,” she says, leaning against the doorframe.  “Too many, actually.  You’re not the worst.”

            “I’ll take that as high praise,” he replies, scouring the floor for his shirt.  He’s less worried about her opinion of his torso than he is about what she might deduce about his past from his various tattoos and scars.  Although it would be flattering if—no, she’d been attracted to Sherlock, the bastard’s practically hairless—no, no, _no_ , she’s attracted to _women_ , and this is hardly the time to dwell on that because something is obviously wrong.

            He locates his shirt and pulls it on over his head just as Joan arrives at the foot of the stairs, still in her pajamas.  “What’s—”

            “Watson,” says Sherrinford, adjusting the hem of his shirt, “I think Miss Rochelle would like a cup of tea.”

            Joan looks from Sherrinford to Irene, a bit bewildered, and Sherrinford can see her taking in Irene’s uncharacteristically disheveled appearance.  Good of her to be getting on with the deductions, but now really isn’t the time.  “Something decaffeinated, if you wouldn’t mind,” Irene says.

            “I’ll go boil some water,” Joan says, but, as always, her curiosity gets the better of her.  “Are you all right?”

            “I could stand to sit down.”

            Joan nods.  Sherrinford immediately moves a stack of old case files off of one of the chairs, and Irene settles down in it with more grace than someone so frightened deserves to have.  Perhaps “frightened” is an uncharitable word, but it’s the only one that comes to mind at the moment as he watches her eyes dart around living room.  An animal cornered, that’s what she is.  Even fierce creatures have their predators.

            “You were awake,” she says at last, taking in all of his paused television screens.

            “Memory exercises.”

            “I’m glad you were,” she says, and that’s all she says.  She lapses into silence, staring at the wall, and he just watches her.

            They sit like that for a minute or so until Joan reenters the room after putting the kettle on in the kitchen.  “Is there anything else I can do?” she asks, which startles Irene from her thoughts.

            “Yes, in fact,” she says, looking back at both of them.  “I have a case for you.”

            Sherrinford raises his eyebrows.  “I’m listening.”

            “I assume you’re familiar with the name Charles Augustus Magnussen?”

            He opens his mouth, unsure, in present circumstances, whether he’s surprised, excited, or disgusted.  “I am.”

            “I’m… not,” says Joan, glancing between him and Irene.  “Who’s Charles Augustus Magnussen?”

            “The king of blackmailers, Watson,” Sherrinford replies, his eyes fixed on Irene, “and the vilest sort of man you’ll ever encounter, one who preys upon the vulnerabilities of others.”  Irene’s hands are folded in her lap, but her eyes are on him—she doesn’t want him to think her vulnerable.  “He paid you a visit tonight.”

            “Yes,” she says, and he can tell from the line above her brows that she’s focusing very hard on keeping her voice steady.  “After my set.”

            “You’re being blackmailed,” Joan says, and Sherrinford wants to roll his eyes—obvious, Watson!—but Irene nods sharply, and her solemnity puts an end to that.  Luckily, Joan comes up with something much more crucial to the conversation, “What do you need from us?”

            “A plan,” she says.  “Magnussen’s asked for money I don’t have, and his terms—if I don’t pay, the penalty is harsh.  You must understand, Mr. Holmes, I would usually deal with such a nuisance on my own, but I’m afraid this matter is so personal that my judgment has been… compromised.”  She returns to being deeply preoccupied with something Sherrinford can’t see on the wall.

            “Miss Rochelle.”  Irene doesn’t look back.  He clears his throat and tries again, a little louder this time.  “Miss Ro _chelle_.”

            At that, she blinks, returning to them once more.  “I need to know if I should start running,” she says softly.

            The kettle whistles distantly.  Joan disappears down into the kitchen.  Sherrinford waits, and then he crosses the room to crouch down by Irene’s feet.  He looks up at her, and she looks down at him, but past him, and he thinks he has a very good idea of whom Magnussen has threatened to hand her over to.  “I won’t let this happen to you,” he says, reaching with his fingers to brush the back of one of her hands, very lightly, but enough to assure her that he’s real and whatever’s happening in her head is not.  “I understand that you’ve taken a great risk by—approaching me with this problem.  An emotional risk.  But I assure you, I will not let that man win.”  He exhales.  “You’re one of the few truly interesting things in this city, Miss Adler.  I’m not about to lose you.”

            Irene watches him, focused now, her stare almost piercing.  “Pretty words,” she says, a smile flickering on her lips, “but I’m not sure they’re entirely meant for me.”

            Sherrinford has nothing to say to that, no clever rebuttal.  Luckily, Joan emerges from the kitchen with one of the few clean mugs remaining clutched in her hands and spares him from replying.  Sherrinford stands awkwardly, brushing off his trousers and giving Irene her personal space back.  He hears Joan murmur that the drink is hot and Irene’s thanks, and he paces a couple of steps with his hands clasped behind him, thinking.

            “I believe there’s a way to do it,” he says slowly.  “I’ll need some time to formulate the plan, but I’ll know by tomorrow morning.  In the intervening hours, given Miss Rochelle’s current mental state, I think it would be best if she spent the night here.”

            Joan gives him an incredulous look.

            “What?”  It takes him a moment to follow her nonsensical train of thought, but when he catches up he sighs in exasperation.  “Watson, you should know by now that if I meant ‘she should stay over so we can have sexual intercourse,’ I would have said ‘she should stay over so we can have sexual intercourse.’  However, as Miss Rochelle is still visibly distressed from her earlier ordeal, I fail to see what intercourse would add—”

            “ _I believe you_ ,” Joan says firmly.  “Okay?  I believe you.  You can stop saying intercourse anytime now.”

            “I’m not distressed,” Irene protests, but quietly.

            “Then you’re very pale for someone who isn’t at all in a state of shock,” Sherrinford says.  “I feel the need to remind you that being in a state of shock is perfectly rational for someone who has, very recently, experienced a great shock.  I don’t mean to patronize you, Miss Rochelle, but I expect your pride makes very few allowances for human emotion.”

            “That sounds something like projection, Mr. Holmes,” she replies, but she doesn’t argue with him and takes another long sip of herbal tea.  After a moment, she says, “I’d like to sit down here and finish my drink first.  I hope that won’t disrupt your process.”

            “Fine.”  He nods.  “You can have my room for the evening.  Watson, show her upstairs when she’s ready so she can wash up.”

            But his mind doesn’t work like a well-oiled machine until she leaves the room, because he watches from the corner of his eye as she regains her color, as she says something to Joan—thanking her again, most likely, in a soft alto murmur—as she brushes her mussed hair back from her face with her slim fingers.  She sits with her legs crossed, one over the other, until she stands to go, and it’s then that he breathes easily again.  It’s then that he can think.

* * *

            “I have everything you might need,” Joan says as she leads Rebecca upstairs to her room.  “Spare toothbrush, contact lens solution—”

            “You do come prepared,” says Rebecca, peering around Joan’s bedroom—unpacked, tidy, and nearly empty when compared with the clutter plaguing the rest of the house.  “That’s a handy trait in a sober companion.”

            Joan, who had been just about to pull open the top drawer of her bureau, pauses, strangely jolted out of her element.  Then again, Sherlock has likely been in contact with Rebecca.  If he trusts her enough to tell her about his situation, well, she won’t make a big deal out of it.  “He told you?”

            “No.”

            Blinking, Joan asks, “Then how did you—”

            “How did I know?  That _is_ the question, isn’t it?”  Rebecca waves one of her pale, slim hands dismissively.  “Not that difficult.  I had the misfortune of seeing your Mr. Holmes shirtless earlier and noticed the track marks on his arms.  Funny how he uses the tattoos to try to draw attention away from them.  Nothing recent, so a former drug user, not a current one.  And then upon entering your room, I noticed the suitcase in the closet and the lack of absolutely anything else: no pictures, no sign you’ve settled in at all, and no trace of your influence in the rest of the house.  You haven’t been here long enough to make an impression, and you don’t intend to stay.  So, recovering addict with a strange woman in his flat for a limited time only.”  Rebecca presses her lips together, smiling.  “What _are_ we to conclude from that?”

            Joan realizes that her mouth has fallen open, and she runs a hand through her hair and says the first thing that comes to mind, something that Sherlock would no doubt consider inane.  “It’s strange to hear you say that with a British accent.”

            Rebecca, who had been about to jump in with something else, closes her mouth, and then opens it again to say, “I didn’t realize I’d neglected to put my voice back on.”

            “No, no, it’s fine,” Joan assures her.  “I mean—all right, so there’s this man blackmailing you, and he must know something you want kept hidden… I’m assuming your fake accent has something to do with a disguise?”

            “That’s correct.”  She sighs, a light, fluttering sound.  “It’s a shame.  The past always catches up.”

            “Mm,” says Joan.  “You know, I never realized how much you and Sherlock had in common.”

            “More than you know,” Rebecca says, “but not so much as all that.”  Joan, taking a look at her, has to agree: Rebecca’s glamorous even in distress, and Sherlock, well… Sherlock and glamor are at opposite ends of the spectrum.  “And not all of our countrymen are so clever and attractive, so I wouldn’t get used to it.  It’s refreshing, though, airing out all of these secrets—your occupation, my accent.  I think Sherry will probably be telling you one or two more things about me tomorrow, so I’m glad to know something more about you.  A fair trade, wouldn’t you agree?”

            “Sherry, huh,” says Joan, finally pulling open her pajama drawer.  “That’s quite the nickname.  So—”

            “He hates it,” says Rebecca brightly.  She seems cheerier now that she has Sherlock on her case, and Joan, in spite of how tired she is, finds herself a bit less tense.  “And speaking of things he hates and sleepwear, I was wondering if I might borrow one of his shirts tonight—although I’m sure yours are more than adequate.”

            Joan looks up, now thoroughly taken aback.  “Sorry, am I missing something?  I mean, it’s not any of my business if you two—”

            “No, no.  It’s just…”  Rebecca raises her eyebrows, as if letting Joan in on a secret.  “I enjoy winding him up.”

            Blinking, Joan steps away from her drawer.  “I can see why you might… find that fun,” she says slowly, trying to make sure she doesn’t say too much.  Her client’s mental health is her first priority, and she needs to draw lines where she sees fit, but she can’t reveal too much to a near stranger.  “You need to be careful with him, though.  He’s been—hurt.”

            “I know.”

            “He told you?”

            “No.”

            Joan sighs.  Recognizing that she won’t win this particular battle, she says, “I’ll find you a shirt, but it might take a while.”

            “That’s all right.”

            It’s easy to sneak past Sherlock, who is still pondering Rebecca’s dilemma in the library, and get downstairs to his room. It is not as easy to locate Sherlock’s clean clothes, but looking for them gives Joan time to reflect on what she’s learned.  Of course, all that she’s learned is that naturally— _naturally_ —Sherlock would show an interest in someone as brilliant and insane as he is.  The trouble is that while Sherlock is brash and untidy, Rebecca Rochelle stands there with a smile and some weird brand of courtesy and makes you feel privileged to be dissected by her.  Privileged and extremely self-conscious, that is.  Sherlock’s behavior, on his worst days, seems like a cry for attention.  Rebecca could have all of the attention in the world with the snap of her fingers.  Joan isn’t sure how to handle that.

            She returns with the shirt, and Rebecca takes it from her with thanks, and then, surprised, says, “You were a doctor.”

            “A surgeon.”  She went through this with Sherlock, but Rebecca’s different so she feels compelled to ask: “How did you know?”

            “I always know a doctor’s hands by touch,” Rebecca replies, fingertips brushing over one of Joan’s empty palms, “even if they’ve been out of practice for years.”  Then she gives Joan a very strange, deliberate look and says, “I’ll show myself to my room, thank you,” turns on her heel, and walks away.

            The door down the hall closes, and since Rebecca’s situated and recovered from whatever spooked her earlier, Joan decides to go back to sleep and leave her alone until morning.  She can’t help but feel that, even though Rebecca supposedly revealed something to her this evening, she’s facing more questions than answers.


	6. The Plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Seth](http://archiveofourown.org/users/h3rring/pseuds/h3rring) is a godsend when it comes to Sherrinford's diction. Sorry this took so long! Keep in mind that we're still around episode eight in _Elementary_ 's timeline, so Sherry and Joan are not yet as chummy in this fic as they have been in recent weeks. Enjoy!

* * *

            Sherrinford Holmes falls asleep on his living room couch only after he’s devised three possible strategies for attacking Irene’s problem.  He wakes up to the tinkling sound of female conversation wafting in from the kitchen and wonders briefly if he’s still dreaming.  Then he realizes that one of the voices belongs to Joan Watson, his erstwhile sober companion, and knows he is not.

            He sits up, stretches, and pads into the kitchen, yawning.  It’s only when he remembers who Joan’s conversation partner is that he makes an effort at covering up his mouth with his hand.

            “Good morning, Mr. Holmes,” says Irene Adler.  She looks somewhat less gloomy than she did the previous evening—better rested, at least—and she has a mug of tea again.  Twinings English Breakfast, by the smell; not some vile herbal concoction.

            “Yes, it must be,” he replies, his arm swinging down by his side.  “I see that you slept…”  He trails off, noticing what she’s wearing for the first time.  Not some borrowed object of Watson’s, but a yellow T-shirt with a shamrock on it.  His shirt.  She’s a small woman and the shirt is large on her, falling midway down her thighs.  She has her legs crossed again, one over the other.

            Sherrinford realizes with something like an electric shock that he is intensely curious about her body.  Neither the parts themselves—he has seen many naked women and they do tend to share reliable characteristics—nor the scars she’s so desperate to hide from him are what hold the appeal, but he wants to see the individual touches that make her _her_.  The shape of her navel, for example, and whether it dips in or pokes out.  The muscle definition on her back, if there is any.  The texture of her body hair, and whether or not she shaves it: her legs are smooth and hairless, he notes, but that says nothing for her armpits or her pubic mound.  He has no real preferences, but he’d like to see, to know, to solve these tiny mysteries himself.

            His curiosity surprises him because, despite attempting to justify it as gathering data, it’s thoroughly unscientific.  He hasn’t felt anything like this for a very long time.  Well, no matter: if he solves her problem, she can be on her way.  It will be better, he thinks, if she goes.  Having her this close is too much.

            “Reasonably well,” Irene finishes, coming to rest her cheek on one of her hands, “considering the circumstances.”

            Sherrinford notices Joan watching him closely and clears his throat.  “That’s, yes,” he says.  “Yes, well, just have it washed when you’re done with it.”

            This earns him a derisive _something_ from Joan that Irene is tactful enough to ignore.  She doesn’t even acknowledge that she’s wearing his shirt.  She just marched into his brownstone and took his clothing and now she’s not even acknowledging it.  Oh, but isn’t this a classic example of power play?  She’s attempting to gain some hold over him because she feels powerless in every other aspect of her life.  He should, he thinks, resent that much more than he does.

            “We were just discussing breakfast options,” Joan says.

            “I told her I’d be content with fresh fruit,” Irene adds.  “But if you—”

            “That sounds fine, excellent,” says Sherrinford, waving his hand.  “Delectable.  Watson, where has our fruit gone?”

            “It’s in the fridge,” says Joan, and she turns to retrieve it.  Irene’s eyes flicker after her as she goes.  Watson’s sleeping shorts—well, they’re short, after all.

            Sherrinford sits down next to Irene, clasps his hands on the tabletop, and says, not too loudly, “You know, if I had any vested interest in prolonging Watson’s dry spell, I’d consider cuffing you for the way you insist on looking at her legs.”

            Irene sighs.  His attempt to get a smile out of her works, to a degree.  “Shall we take this outside, Mr. Holmes?”

            “Oh, no,” he says quickly.  “I wouldn’t dare lay a finger on you, Miss Rochelle.”

            “As well you shouldn’t,” she murmurs, raising her mug to her lips.  “I hit hard.”

            “I only caught the last part of that conversation,” says Joan, coming back over with a bowl of freshly washed strawberries and blueberries, “but I think I’m okay with that.  So, what’s the plan?”

            Sherrinford, who had been staring at Irene as she sipped her tea, snaps back to earth.  “The plan.  Yes, the plan.  It’s simple—in fact, you could say it’s elegant.”  His mouth has gone dry for some reason.  He presses his lips together for a moment and then says, “Charles Augustus Magnussen derives his power from the information he acquires, information which he uses to blackmail his victims.  The trouble at present is that we cannot conceal or destroy the very grave information he has regarding Miss Rochelle.”

            “Why not?” asks Joan as she down across from them.

            “Because I’m not supposed to be alive,” Irene says flatly, “and he knows I am.”

            “Oh.”

            “As I said,” says Sherrinford, “very grave.”

            Joan looks at Irene, but before she can pursue her line of questioning, Sherrinford continues, “However, there is another way.  Miss Rochelle’s mere existence is plenty for Magnussen to use against her… but the same cannot be said for the rest of his victims.  From what I know of Magnussen, and I did keep tabs on him whilst I was in London, he’ll take advantage of—”

            “Correspondence,” Irene interjects.  “Letters, emails, text messages.  Occasionally, incriminating photographs.  He acquires them from various sources and then makes his demands.”

            Sherrinford dislikes interruption when he’s being clever, but he nods because, of course, she is correct.  Then Joan speaks: “You knew him before tonight.”

            “We met briefly once or twice, always in passing.  Otherwise, we avoided each other somewhat purposefully.”

            “Why?”

            Irene hesitates, and then leans back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other.  She’s lost her appetite, apparently; the berries in the bowl have gone untouched.  “We both gathered information.  I was more of a collector.  Originally, I never intended to use it for anything other than my own protection.  I’ll add for the benefit of gaining your trust, Miss Watson, that I never successfully blackmailed anyone.”  She takes the tiniest sip of her tea—mouth gone dry like his, Sherrinford imagines.  “At any rate, it would have been imprudent for us to overlap terribly much.”

            Joan is listening closely, now, intensely curious.  She thinks she’s seized onto something, unaware that she is the only person in the room who does not know the full story.  “Why did you need protection?”

            Irene hesitates, the mug still clasped in her hands.  “I’ll leave it to Sherry to tell you what you need to know when it becomes relevant,” she says, and Sherrinford suppresses a wince at the use of that pet name, especially in front of Joan.  Still, the intent is clear.  Tell Joan what she needs to know, and no more than that.  “Time is short.  Yes, Charles Magnussen deals in information.  What of it?”

            “Obviously he’s not capable of making threats without proper documentation,” Sherrinford says.  “Verified email exchanges, unaltered photographs, and what have you.  Now, I wouldn’t believe he puts the documentation in safekeeping somewhere across the Pond, would you?  He has too many enemies for that.  He’s too paranoid for that.”

            “You think it’s on him,” Irene says.  And then, before Sherrinford can correct her: “He does have a phone—he used it to check his schedule.”

            “Not _on_ him, no, but nearby,” clarifies Sherrinford.  He remembers Irene’s file, how she kept all of her information on a mobile phone.  It’s no surprise that she’d believe Magnussen would do the same.  “He wouldn’t bring it with him when visiting a prospective client.  What if you held him at gunpoint and took it by force?”

            “If only I had,” Irene says, and she doesn’t bother lowering her voice.  “Still, the information you’re looking for would most likely be digital if he’s concerned with keeping it nearby.  A laptop, then.  In his hotel room—”  She stops.  “Oh, I _see_.  Yes, I do like that.”

            Sherrinford rubs at his chin, trying not to let it show that her compliments affect him in any way.  “Miss Rochelle will not acquiesce to Magnussen’s demands,” he explains to Joan.  “To ensure this, he must believe that she’s so well-connected that threatening her was a mistake in the first place.  Luckily for her, she _is_ well-connected.  Proving as much is simply a matter of breaking into Magnussen's hotel room to erase whatever unsavory material he has on his personal computer, and, if there's time, to retrieve whatever may be used against him in turn.  I’m confident in my ability to bypass any safe he’s using—”

            Joan looks as though she can’t believe what she’s hearing.  “That’s the plan,” she repeats.  “The plan is to break into a hotel room.”

            “And a safe.  Weren’t you listening?” Sherrinford says, irritated that she’s too caught up in technicalities to see the brilliance of it all.  “Magnussen will think he’s under _attack_ , Watson.  Once he understands that the only way to guarantee the survival of his enterprise is to leave Miss Rochelle alone, he’ll do so.  Of course, that doesn't mean I’ll restore his deleted files.  It will take him a while to replenish his wares—but that means less time for him to harass his victims.  In conclusion: multiple birds struck dead with one stone.”

            “Sherlock, think about what you’re doing.”

            Sherrinford stands up.  His chair squeaks against the floor.  “Watson, I have given it every consideration.  Charles Augustus Magnussen is the _lowest_ of the low, he is the very worst type of human being that there is—he preys upon the _vulnerable_.  To be honest with you, I am more than willing to sacrifice the legal high ground to stop him.  My inaction would be devastating for Miss Rochelle and others.”

            Joan watches him, glances briefly at Irene, and then squares her shoulders and makes up her mind.  “Okay.  When are we going?”

            “Sorry?”

            “When are we going?”

            He stares at her.  Hadn’t she just been telling him that he _wasn’t_ going to break into a hotel room?  He thought she would be too preoccupied with messy legal issues to accompany him.  “You are not coming.”

            “Then you are not going.”  She stands up too.  “You know that’s not how this arrangement works.”

            “Fine!” he says, throwing up his hands, but some small part of him whispers its approval.  She’s determined, he’ll give her that.  Yes, he thinks Joan Watson is someone else he’ll be happy to have out of his life when her time is up—he doesn’t want to grow _dependent_.  “Fine, you’re coming.”  And, as the plan takes shape, as the course of action grows ever clearer, he feels a familiar sense of exhilaration.  “As for when…”

            “Tonight,” Irene says suddenly.  Sherrinford is surprised to find her still seated, but she doesn’t need to stand to command attention.  “Magnussen told me he was going to the opera tonight.”

            He stares at her.  That is _exactly_ the window that he needs to get in and get out.  It’s almost too good to be true.  “You’re certain?”

            She smiles at him, regal even without her makeup, without her perfect hair, sitting at the kitchen table in one of his old shirts.  “My darling Mr. Holmes,” she says, “when am I not?”

            And for a moment she is so radiant, so blinding, so keen, that he forgets who is sitting in her chair entirely.  Overjoyed, wishing to share it somehow, he swoops down and plants a kiss by the corner of her mouth.  “Excellent,” he says.  “There are a few small matters I’ll have to settle before we can access Magnussen’s hotel room.  Miss Rochelle—” He gestures to her without looking.  “—please sit tight.  Watson, I need to run an errand but I _will_ return within our agreed two-hour time limit.  While I’m gone—”

            “Are you all right?” Joan asks, and he stops.  She’s not talking to him.

            Irene Adler has become intensely transfixed by air in front of her again.  She does not respond.  Joan leans down in front of her.  “Rebecca,” she says quietly, and Irene starts in her seat, looks up at Joan, offers her a slightly forced smile that she flashes only briefly in Sherrinford’s direction.

            “I’m all right,” she says to Joan.  “I’m still tired, that’s all.”  But he knows that isn’t it.  What had happened in the past one hundred and twenty seconds to make her go—oh.  Of course.  He got carried away.  Unexpected, unwanted physical contact.  Yes, given what he’s theorized about her, that would be enough to cause her to retreat into herself.  Maybe he triggered a flashback to a traumatic experience.  His excitement is immediately tempered by a strange, misplaced sense of shame.

            “I should probably go back to my flat and start packing,” she continues, and her words are carefully parceled out and measured.  “As a precaution.”

            “I—assure you,” he says, walking over to the other side of the table to let her breathe, “there is no need for that.”

            “Forgive me if I disagree,” she replies.  “If I’ve learned anything at all, it’s that precautionary measures must always be taken.  Excuse me.”

            She stands, still avoiding his eyes, and leaves the kitchen.  He hears the soft creak of the stairs under her feet.  Joan is glaring daggers at him.  He isn’t in the mood for confrontation.  “I did not intend for that to happen,” he tells her.

            “Oh, really?” she says, crossing her arms.  “Are you going to feed me some bullshit excuse about how you just can’t control yourself around her?”

            “No, _no_.”  He kneads his forehead with his hands.  “I am perfectly capable of controlling myself around her.  I just…”  There is no good way to tell Joan that he forgot who was sitting in Irene’s chair—which Irene—that he forgot this Irene has probably been through something awful that would make kissing her at all a terrible idea.  “I do have an errand to run,” he says, “and we are running low on time.  You may chastise me to your heart’s content when I return.”

            Joan sighs.  She doesn’t like that.  He can’t say he likes it much either.  “Extend to Miss Rochelle my sincerest apologies,” he says.

            “I don’t think that should be my job,” says Joan.

            “Have it your way,” he says, but she’s right, and he walks out of the kitchen to find his shoes and jacket.

* * *

            After Sherlock leaves, Joan isn’t sure exactly what to do with herself.  She picks up her cup of tea, paces around the table for a minute or so, and then notices the bowl of fruit sitting where Rebecca left it, untouched, red berries bright against porcelain.  Joan sighs, rests her empty palm against the table for a fraction of a second, and then puts her cup back down and heads downstairs.  She knows she can’t stand around doing nothing.

            Joan approaches quietly, trying not to let her feet creak on the old wood.  She doesn’t want any unexpected sounds to spook Rebecca.  From the bottom of the staircase, she calls, “Rebecca?”

            The double doors to Sherlock’s bedroom creak open.  Rebecca looks out from behind them, smiling blankly.  She’s already back in the dress she was wearing last night, the sequins too shiny in the dusty morning light, and her hair has been brushed into soft waves and pinned back from her face on one side.  “Hello, Miss Watson,” she says.  “I’ll just be a minute.”  She reaches up to pin her hair on the other side.  Her forearms are very pale.  Joan wonders, suddenly, if she’s naturally that pale or if she doesn’t see the sun much.  “I folded Sherlock’s shirt and left it on the bed.  I hope that’s all right.”

            “Yes, that’s fine,” Joan says, somewhat distracted, and then she moves a little closer and asks, very gently, “Are you?”

            Rebecca’s smile is blank and very well-practiced.  “Pardon?”

            “I know Sherlock startled you.”  Joan approaches the door.  “I was wondering if you wanted to talk about it.”

            “Miss Watson—”

            “Just Joan, please.”

            “Joan, then,” Rebecca says, but she doesn’t open the door any wider.  “I shouldn’t think so, thank you.”

            “Rebecca.”  Joan tries to convey what she wants to say in gestures, but her hands are inadequate.  “I’m—you already know that I’m a sober companion, but a lot of the clients I’ve worked with in the past have had to deal with emotional issues in addition to their physical recoveries—because drug use doesn’t just come out of nowhere, and…”

            Rebecca frowns.  “Don’t patronize me.”

            “I’m not, I’m not, I just…”  Joan runs a hand through her hair nervously.  It’s like trying to talk to Sherlock all over again.  “What I’m trying to say is that I noticed the reaction you had downstairs and—well, if you bury these things, they can only get worse.”

            “I understand that,” Rebecca says.  “If you’ll excuse me—”

            She moves to close the door, but Joan presses against it, stopping her.  “Look,” she says, “if you won’t talk to me, will you at least tell me that you’re talking to someone?  A therapist, or…”

            “Joan.”  Rebecca’s voice is hard, and smile gone.  “I understand what you’re trying to do.  You may be a sober companion, but you aren’t mine.  I’ve no obligation to tell you what I am or am not doing with regards to my own mental health and, frankly, dwelling on what happened downstairs is making it _more_ difficult to—”  She stops suddenly and looks down, as if noticing something.  Joan also looks, but doesn’t see anything.

            “If I want to tell you, I will tell you on my own time,” Rebecca says quietly, “when I am ready.  And not because you force my trust, but because you have earned it.  Is that clear?”

            “I… yes,” Joan says, and she’s flooded with embarrassment, hot and stinging.  “Yes, it is.  Old habits die hard, I’m… you know, all this with Sherlock, it’s…”  She shakes her head, as if to clear it.  “Is there anything I _can_ do for you?”

            Rebecca cocks her head to the side and studies Joan in a searching way that makes Joan feel oddly naked.  “I think so,” Rebecca says.  “You may help me with my makeup, if you like.”

            “Oh.”  That was not what Joan had been expecting.  She blinks.  “Are you going somewhere?”

            “Just back to my flat.”  The smile is back now, but it’s small and almost sorry, as if Rebecca pities her for not understanding something.  “But I find there’s beauty in a painted face, don’t you?”

            “I guess so,” says Joan, who only puts on makeup to _leave_ the house.  She realizes what she hadn’t seen before—Rebecca’s hands are now out of sight.  She’s hiding them because they must be shaking—shaking so badly, after their conversation, that Rebecca doesn’t feel comfortable finishing her makeup herself.  Joan understands that being allowed near while Rebecca is vulnerable is an olive branch she doesn’t really deserve.

            “All right,” Joan says.  “I’ll help.”

            A few minutes later, Rebecca is freshly painted and packed into a cab back to her flat, and Joan is left alone again, empty-handed, with nothing to do but wait.  She showers, straightens up her room, and generally tries to keep herself occupied, but can’t help feeling restless, especially after she receives a text from Sherlock—one that takes her a minute or two to decipher—that he’ll be a bit later than he expected.  She sighs, and goes to find something to read. 

            When he finally walks through the door, it’s nearly two in the afternoon, and she’s waiting to intercept him.

            “Good news, Watson—”

            “Open your mouth,” she demands.

            He sighs, but complies, allowing her to swab him for drugs.  She only listens to him when the test verifies he’s still clean.

            “Did you honestly expect otherwise?” he asks her.  “We have a _case_ , Watson.”

            “I know.”

            He examines her.  “Something happened.”

            “No.”

            “You’re cross, but not so much with me.”

            She doesn’t bother to deny it.  She’s not about to tell him that she’s angry with herself.  “Where _were_ you?”

            “Ah.”  He rocks forward on the balls of his feet.  “You’ll be pleased to learn that I’ve met someone new.”

            “What?”  Joan stares.  “ _Now_?  What, you mean you’ve made a friend, or are you talking about a romantic—you know, usually I’d be thrilled that you’re connecting with people, but is this really the time?”

            “It’s always the time, Watson.  I have just made the acquaintance of a very charming young woman named Monica.  Coincidentally, she happens to be the maid who cleans the floor of the hotel in which Magnussen is staying.”

            “ _Sherlock_.”

            “It didn’t take much to deduce his lodging of choice.  New York has few high-class hotels that match up with his particularly louche standards.  Even though Monica was looking forward to an evening on the town with yours truly, I’ll be too busy making use of this.”  He reaches into his pocket and holds up a small, white piece of plastic.

            Joan furrows her brow.  “That’s a key card,” she says.

            “It is _the_ key card,” Sherlock says, “that will get us into any room on Magnussen’s floor.  I borrowed it from Monica just before she clocked out—she was suitably distracted.  She won’t notice its disappearance until she shows up for her shift tomorrow morning.”  He glances at Joan.  “Are you going to chide me or congratulate me?”

            “That’s how we’re getting in.”

            “ _Yes_.  Must I spell everything out?  That’s exactly how we’re getting in.”

            She shrugs.  “I guess I was expecting something flashier.  Not that I’m disappointed at all, just… surprised.”

            Sherlock sighs.  “Being flashy gets you caught.”

            “That’s rich coming from the man who crashed my car.”  Joan shakes her head, not sure if she’s equipped to deal with Sherlock’s mania while Rebecca’s refusal still stings.  “You seem like you’re in a better mood.”

            “The possibility of thwarting one of the vilest men to ever walk the streets of London should be enough to raise anyone's spirit.”  He grins at her.  “Now, Watson, retrieve your coat.  We're going to stake out a lobby.”


	7. The King of Blackmailers

* * *

            Joan does not see Charles Augustus Magnussen leave the hotel.  She’s busy sitting on one of the round benches in the middle of the lobby, staring down at her tablet and pretending to be immersed in _The New York Times Magazine_.  According to Sherlock, “they can’t _both_ watch out for him.”

            Even though Joan does not see Magnussen leave, she knows when he’s gone, because Sherlock nudges her and nods toward the elevators.  “He left about ten minutes ago,” Sherlock says in a low whisper.  “Time to move.”

            “Ten _minutes_?”

            “I didn’t want to be obvious about our movements.  Someone watching us in return is always a possibility.” 

            “You still could have said something to me.” 

            “Shh,” says Sherlock, and he stands and starts walking towards the elevators without further explanation, leaving Joan no choice but to follow him.

            Joan doesn’t think Sherlock’s fears about being watched or noticed are completely unfounded, though.  Ever since they walked in and sat down, she worried someone would realize that they weren’t guests and evict them.  Sherlock can’t exactly say he’s here on NYPD business, after all.  Luckily, all of the hotel personnel coming and going don’t spare them a second glance.  The only person who does is a man sitting by the elevator reading the newspaper, and that’s just because Joan bumps his foot with her toe by accident.

            “Sorry,” she says, as Sherlock mutters, “We need the sixteenth floor.”  He glances up to see what floor all of the elevators are currently on, and huffs impatiently.

            When they finally reach the sixteenth floor, Sherlock takes off down the hallway, Joan nearly trotting to keep up.  Before she can tell him to go slower, he stops, studies the number on the door, then pulls something out of his jacket pocket—a pair of rubber gloves, all balled up.  He snaps them on, and then rummages around in his pocket again before recovering a small, shiny piece of plastic.  The key he’d stolen before.

            “There are specially made devices to unlock most hotel doors,” he tells her.  “One ingenious trick in particular involves adapting the unlocking mechanism to fit inside of a dry erase marker.  I’ve been itching to try it out.”  He sighs. He’s taking his time, showing off.  This is not that _hard_.  “Sadly, a field test will have to wait.  I suppose we’re suspicious enough as it is, don’t you?”

            “Right,” says Joan, who glances nervously down the hall to make sure no one’s around to overhear him.  “Can’t you just open the door?”

            Sherlock nearly bounces in place.  “I always thought I would have made an exceptional criminal, Watson,” he says, “had I chosen that path.  Now is my chance to find out.”  He sticks the key card in the lock, which clicks admission, and they enter the room.

            “Touch nothing,” he says.

            “Yeah, thanks,” says Joan, craning her neck to get a good look around.  “I got that.”

            The hotel room is nicer than Joan’s apartment.  Sherlock doesn’t pause to explore it; instead, he makes a beeline for the safe, leaving Joan to peer around the living room area, poke her head into the bedroom, even glance into the closet, in which hang several garment bags for men’s suits.  Everything is neat and tidy, aside from a pencil out of place here, a toothbrush there, and Magnussen’s suitcase sitting out on the floor by one of the bed’s corners.

            “All this for a short business trip?” Joan wonders aloud.  “You’d think he wouldn’t need this much space.”

            “His attempts to seem impressive,” calls Sherlock, who is going at the safe with what appears to be an unbent paper clip.  “No doubt he has met here with a client or two.  Once they see this arrangement, they would understand that Magnussen is a man of means, proudly displaying the profits of his blackmail.”

            “Clients?”

            “Rebecca, for example.”

            Joan shakes her head.  “I wouldn’t call Rebecca a ‘client.’”

            “While Magnussen would.  Ah—”  The safe’s screen flashes “UNLOCKED” and the door pops open.  Sherlock reaches inside it and carefully extracts a laptop in a sleek, black protective case.  “Fantastic.” 

            He carries the laptop over to an armchair in the corner.  When he sits, he pulls the footstool between his legs so he can set the laptop down on it.  Joan comes to lean against the armrest of a couch, folding her arms over her chest for lack of anything better to do.  “So do you have to guess his password now?”

            “No,” says Sherlock, booting up the laptop.  “MacBooks are generally easy to overcome in that respect.  If he has encrypted his hard drive, as I expect he has, I’ll have a harder time of it, but—”

            “Okay,” Joan says.  “I know you can multitask.  While we’re waiting, tell me about Rebecca.” 

            Sherlock doesn’t look up.  “What about Rebecca?”

            “Well…”  Joan can’t really think of a good way to phrase what she’s wondering.  “Who are we—helping?  I mean, what does she have to hide that would require her to go this far to disguise herself?  She says she’s supposed to be dead.”

            Sherlock frowns.  “As am I.” 

            “We covered—I mean, I know why _you_ —”

            “Rebecca Rochelle was a high-class sex worker back in London,” Sherlock says abruptly.  “She involved herself with the wrong people, learned too much, and thus needed to disappear.  She is partially to blame for being so—opportunistic, let’s say, but Magnussen’s idea of punishment hardly suits the crime.  He has threatened to return her to the people she is hiding from.” 

            “And they wouldn’t be happy to see her.”

            “No, Watson.  I imagine they would be very happy to dispose of her correctly, this time.”

            Sherlock lapses into silence again, squinting at the computer’s screen.  Joan says, “So, did you know her, then?  Back in London?”

            “No, she was most assuredly out of my price range.”  Joan rolls her eyes, and he adds, “I knew _of_ her.  Our paths never crossed.”

            “Huh.”  Joan leans back, crossing her feet at the ankle.  “I never would have guessed, though, about the sex worker thing.  I mean—she seems sweet, in a weird way.”

            “Sex workers are perfectly capable of many things, including sweetness. Miss Rochelle is also capable of many things, but being ‘sweet’ is not one of them.  She is, however, the victim of a dreadful crime, and discussion of her character concerns me far less than the fact there is nothing to be found on this laptop.”

            “What?”  Joan leans forward again to peer over his shoulder.  “What do you mean, nothing?”

            “I mean it literally.”  His voice rises in exasperation.  “This is a dummy.” 

            “But—”

            Something clicks behind them.

            “Not you,” says Sherlock.  It is not a question. Joan, who thinks her arms may have frozen to her sides from the shock, shakes her head.

            Immediately, he seizes her wrist and pulls her off the couch, and they stumble to the curtains at the far corner of the room, which Sherlock draws around them.  Joan is too surprised to protest—their window of opportunity should have been longer, she thinks.  Opera is—well, it’s not _short_ , generally speaking, and—

            The door opens.  Someone steps inside.  One step.  Two.  The door closes.  Sherlock squeezes her wrist and whispers, “Don’t breathe so much.”

            Joan squints at the sliver of the room she can make out from their hiding place.  “We left the safe open,” is all she can think to whisper back.

            “And the laptop out, yes, I am _aware_.”

            Whoever has entered the room noticed the safe first.  A flurry of quick footsteps over, and then a long pause as whoever it is examines Sherlock’s handiwork.  “Neatly done,” says a voice, male and accented—Magnussen’s, it must be.  “Why don’t you show yourself so that I may congratulate you in person?”

            Joan looks up at Sherlock.  From this angle, even in the dim light, she thinks she can count every single hair on his chin.  Sherlock shakes his head.

            “It’s not a large room, after all,” implores the voice.  “It won’t take very long to search.  Much easier to come quietly, don’t you think?  Just the two of us… no need for hotel security…”

            Sherlock sighs, and nudges Joan, cueing her to step out of the curtain.  Joan shakes her head, but he nudges her again and there doesn’t seem to be any choice.  They’re out of options. She steps to the side.

            Charles Augustus Magnussen is not intimidating.  Oh, he’s tall, yes, and Joan already knows him to be capable of terrible things, but his expression, upon seeing her, flickers with unmistakable surprise before settling on something calmer, more controlled.  He is not expecting a woman. Joan looks at him, and the alarm she’d felt when Sherlock pulled her behind the curtain evaporates.  Maybe she isn’t Sherlock, but she won't be underestimated. This man does not scare her.

            The feeling is mutual, apparently.  “Ah,” he says, with nothing more than curiosity.  “Hello.  And you must be?”

            “Hotel security,” says Sherlock, revealing himself and speaking over Joan with his best Brooklyn accent.  “We were informed of some suspish individuals entering your room and thought we’d come check on ya.  Didn’t find anybody, and then we heard you coming in, Minster...”

            “Magnussen,” says Magnussen, who looks Sherlock up and down.  “I doubt the thieves would be the ones entering the room, since I’m fairly certain I am looking right at them.”

            “There’s been a mistake,” says Joan.

            “So it seems.”  Magnussen strolls over to the laptop, completely at ease, and closes it.  “I don’t think you found what you wanted on this.  You couldn’t have, since the information you wish to obliterate is locked away in a safety deposit box in London.”  He peers at them over his glasses.  “You didn’t think I would be so foolish as to carry it with me to New York?”

            Sherlock’s face twists.  “Paranoid enough to keep it near, perhaps,” he says, his voice his own again.  “In any event, we will not be leaving until you abandon your plans to harass of Miss Rebecca Rochelle for money she doesn’t have.”

            “She asked you to come?”

            “She did.”

            Magnussen settles down in the armchair that Sherlock had occupied only minutes before.  “Called upon you, personally?”

            “She did.”

            “And you’re refusing to leave.”

            “Not without a guarantee from you, no.”

            “It seems we’re at an impasse, then,” says Magnussen, smiling gently.  “What are we to do now?”

            Sherlock shrugs, swings his arms idly.  Joan doesn’t trust that look in his eye.  “Then physical confrontation is the most likely recourse,” he replies.  “I believe I have the advantage, Mr. Magnussen.  You’re not as young as you used to be.”

            “ _Sherlock_ ,” Joan gasps, halfway between exclamation and admonishment.

            Magnussen raises his eyebrows.  “Ah,” he says.  “Mr. Sherlock _Holmes_ , is it?”

            It takes Sherlock a second or two to work his mouth.  Something tells Joan he hadn’t been expecting that.  “The very same,” he replies.  “I take it my reputation has… preceded me.”

            “Something like that.”  Magnussen is grinning outright, a small, almost patronizing grin.  “You could say I’m a fan.”

            “Could you?” Sherlock croaks.  “Most intriguing.”

            “You’re a bit shorter than I expected.”

            “Well, that's to be expected when my current, err, companion has a fondness for high heels.”  Sherlock is speaking unusually quickly now, even for him.  “My previous one did not; I appeared taller by comparison.  The magic of photographic perspective.”

            “I see.”  Magnussen glances at his wristwatch, contemplates it, and says, “Yes, I daresay I’m already on schedule to miss the first act entirely at this point.  Ah, well. I should make the most of it.”  He looks back up at Sherlock, and his smile widens.  “I always did want to hear the tale of the Aluminium Crutch straight from the source.”

            Aluminium Crutch rings a very faint bell, and then all at once Joan realizes that it was one of the cases written up on John Watson’s blog.  It had been so dense that she only skimmed it.  Sherlock stares.  “Yes, that is an unlikely fan favorite,” he says, his voice strained.  “Mr. Magnussen, while I would otherwise relish recounting my more memorable exploits, I believe we have—”

            “Or I could call hotel security,” Magnussen says pleasantly.  “ _And_ I’d shorten Miss Rochelle’s grace period by a day, leaving her, oh…” He checks his watch again.  “Three hours to gather up the funds I’ve requested from her.”

            Sherlock sighs.  “Very _well_ ,” he says.

            He proceeds to launch into one of the most convoluted stories Joan has ever heard, involving actors, affairs, and a murder accidentally committed during a play.  As he tells it, he paced the perimeter of the room, walking in circles around Joan and Magnussen.  At one point, he stands upon the couch to better lay out the scene of a crime, the theater’s stage, and pantomimes swinging something—the titular crutch, apparently.  Joan gets the sense that he’s staging a performance himself.  To get on Magnussen’s good side, maybe?  To appeal to his sense of the theatrical?

            “And that,” Sherlock concludes, “is how the murder victim, Sidney Paget, unintentionally became his own killer.”  He pants, slightly out of breath.  “I trust you found the tale to your liking, Mr. Magnussen.”

            “Wonderfully told,” says Magnussen, who removes the glasses from the bridge of his nose and polishes them on his jacket.  “You have an excellent memory, Mr. Holmes, and the mannerisms were spot on.  You must be close to the source of that very tale, then, to know it so well.”

            “What do you mean, ‘close to the source?’” Joan asks.  “You heard him, he was _there_.”

            “So I did, Miss Watson.  I heard what he said clearly enough.”  And then, to Sherlock: “She doesn’t know, I take it.”

            “Know what?” asks Joan.

            “Shall I tell her?”

            “Tell me _what_?”

            “I believe she would be very interested to hear what I have to say.”

            For once, Sherlock seems to be at a loss for words.  Joan looks from him to Magnussen and back to him.  This time, it’s Magnussen who sighs.  “Well, if you don’t want me to tell her your little secret, I’m afraid you’ll have to honor my request to leave.  Miss Rochelle will—”

            “It doesn’t matter what you have to say,” Joan says, fixing her eyes on Magnussen.

            “I’m sorry, Miss Watson?”

            “About Sherlock,” she says.  “It doesn’t matter what you have to say about Sherlock.”  She squares her shoulders.  She remembers how Rebecca had looked the previous evening, this _morning_ : so uncharacteristically shaken, so—stricken, for lack of a better word.  Magnussen had done that to her, and now he’s trying to do it to Sherlock.  Her hands clench by her side.  “Because I don’t have any reason to believe anything that comes out of your mouth.  You threatened a perfectly innocent woman, a friend—”

            Magnussen’s mouth twitches at that.  Apparently he doesn’t consider Rebecca all that innocent.  Joan ignores him.  “—and now you’re trying to intimidate Sherlock the same way.”  She pauses for breath, but only briefly.  “But here’s the thing: if there’s something he needs to tell me, he can tell me on his own time.  When he’s ready.”  She can’t see Sherlock, but she can feel him staring at her.  “Until then, it doesn’t matter.”

            For a moment, Magnussen regards her steadily.  Then, he looks back at Sherlock.  “You have a very stubborn companion, Mr. Holmes.”

            “Tenacious to a fault,” Sherlock replies.  “Although not always to a _fault_ , it seems.”

            “So it does.  One last question, then,” says Magnussen, very calmly, very deliberately—Joan can’t miss how clearly he’s enunciating all of his words, “as it seems you and I are at an impasse yet again.  You’re an Englishman.  Have you heard any news of one of your compatriots, a young man named Jeremy Sigerson?”

            Sherlock doesn’t blink, but the air between him and Magnussen suddenly crackles with electricity.  _Something_ , some kind of understanding, has been had between them.  Joan looks from one of them to the other, but she can’t read their faces.  The name is meaningless to her.

            Then Sherlock shrugs, and the connection breaks.  “No idea,” he says.  “Sorry.”

            “I’m surprised, Mr. Holmes,” Magnussen says with a slight smile that doesn’t reach his cold eyes.  “He’s been making news in recent weeks.”

            “I haven’t been to England for quite some time, Mr. Magnussen,” says Sherlock, clasping his hands behind his back.  “Months, actually.  I’ve been preoccupied with events transpiring here, in New York City.  Regretfully, I have neglected to keep up with the news overseas.  If you’d care to enlighten me…”

            Magnussen waves him off.  “It’s not important,” he says.  “Although it might amuse you to look Sigerson up.  But, never mind.  I was merely curious.”  He stands and turns away from them, then, to walk a few short steps to the window and look down at the city below, bustling and glowing.  “What a small world it is,” he muses.  “You may tell your friend Miss Rochelle that I will not be bothering her again.”

            “What?” Joan exclaims.  “Why not?”

            Magnussen turns his head, not toward her, but toward Sherlock.  “You may also tell her that I believe she does not have what I require of her after all.  She will understand.”

            “And why would she believe _you_?” Joan asks, her arms still folded across her chest.  “Why should we? You blackmailed her—you _threatened_ her.”

            At last, Magnussen acknowledges her presence again, nodding in her direction.  “I am good on my word, Miss Watson,” he says.  “I have to be, in my profession.  My clients, as it were, have to believe that I mean what I say.”  He straightens his waistcoat.  “You can serve as witnesses.  If any harm comes to Miss Rochelle after this, let it be known that Charles Augustus Magnussen is a liar.  Now, please vacate my hotel room before I am forced to call security.”

            They don’t need to be told twice.  Silently, Sherlock strides toward the door; he holds it open for Joan when she follows.  On her way down the hall, she nearly bumps into a man with a newspaper, but manages to sidestep him at the last second.  No one speaks until Joan and Sherlock are alone, waiting for the impossibly slow elevators to arrive.  Elevators are _always_ slow when you need to get somewhere, or when you need to get away.

            Sherlock is distracted, his focus somewhere else.  That meeting didn’t go as planned, and not because Magnussen walked in on them, but because he planted a fake laptop to trick them.  Sherlock doesn’t like being played for a fool.

            “John Watson,” Joan says, for the sake of saying something.

            Sherlock nearly jumps.  “Sorry?”

            “He was going to tell me about John Watson, wasn’t he?”  Joan looks at him, but Sherlock keeps staring straight ahead at the closed elevator doors.  “About him and how you faked your death, back in London.”

            “Most likely.”

            “But I already knew.”  Joan shrugs her purse higher up on her shoulder.  “I know all of that.”

            “Yes, you do.  And?”

            “And nothing.”  Joan shakes her head.  “It’s just that Charles Augustus Magnussen isn’t as smart as he thinks he is.” 

            Sherlock turns to her, then.  He doesn’t smile, but his eyes search her face, and whatever spell he’d been under lifted.  He doesn’t thank her, either, for standing up for him.  That’s all right.  She doesn’t expect him to.

* * *

            “You knew.” 

            “Good evening,” says Irene Adler.  She’s been expecting him.  She’s wearing a periwinkle peignoir set that falls to her feet even though it’s barely evening.  Her feet are bare; no high heels adorn them on this occasion.  Makeup: minimal.  Breathtaking.  If the sight of her in relatively intimate apparel is meant to distract him from his anger, it does not work.  Mostly.

            “You _knew_.”

            “Lower your voice, darling.  You’ll disturb the neighbors.”

            Sherrinford does not stay still—cannot.  He paces out a box for himself in front of her doorway several feet long and several feet wide and stalks it as if defending a perimeter.  He does not meet her eyes.  Instead, he stares at the fleur-de-lis pattern on the carpeting.  Much symbolic value to be had in a good fleur-de-lis.  “Watson believes I am here to apologize, and I _am_ —I am sorry for upsetting you earlier, but the more pressing matter, at this moment, is that you _knew_ , and you _used_ us.”

            “Don’t be dramatic,” Irene scoffs.  “You and Joan Watson are both safe.”

            “Yes, we are.”  Sherrinford barely pauses in his pacing.  “That doesn’t change—”

            “And you’ve saved me the trouble of committing a rather messy murder.”

            “Don’t be absurd.  You wouldn’t have killed Magnussen.”

            “Wouldn’t I?”

            Sherrinford stops pacing.

            “Good,” Irene says.  Her eyes burn into him.  “You’re listening now.  Had you not been so busy nursing your wounded pride, you would already have seen that no one was harmed, my hands are still clean, and certain unsavory parties are no closer to tracing down our mutual friend than they were previously.  Sending you as an agent was the best move I could have made.”

            He goggles at her, and she’s completely unfazed by it.  Yes, he has to admit to that there is some very _twisted_ logic in what she’s saying—twisted and self-serving logic.  Well, at least it’s no wonder that she’s _survived_ this long.  He read her file, he should have known.  He should have known.  “That is not,” he says, “the point, Miss Adler.  The point is that you _used_ us, you sent us into a situation that could have endangered both of us, and—”  He stops, unsure of how to continue.  “How—how _did_ you know?”

            Oh, she has been waiting for him to ask.  Her face lights up with a triumphant glow.  He’d swear that the whole hallway lights up with it, even though that’s impossible; that would defy both physics and expectation.  Then again, he’s learning very quickly that she does not play by anyone else’s rules.  “Think of it like this,” she says.  “What would Charles Augustus Magnussen stand to gain by blackmailing me?”

            “The thrill of holding your life in the palm of his hand,” Sherrinford replies automatically.  “The man is a parasite.”

            She nods in agreement, but the corners of her mouth twitch with amusement.  “Yes, there is that.  I would not have been his wealthiest victim by any means, but his brand of blackmail was always about power, not money.  In our conversation he mentioned that he stood to gain much by appeasing certain parties—power that money can’t buy.  He was after the _true_ respect of men more powerful than he.”

            “So you realized that he was laying a trap for…”  The name “Jeremy Sigerson” dies on his lips.  It’s such a bright, cheerful alias.  It doesn’t suit the real Sherlock Holmes at all.  Then again, that _is_ the point.  ”… our mutual friend.”

            “I extrapolated,” she says, “on the taxi ride to your house.  Mr. Magnussen believes he knows me, Sherry darling, and that was his mistake.”  He grimaces, and she continues, “He believes that we are of a similar make.  He asked me for money that he knew I did not have—shouldn’t it benefit him more were I able to pay?—and then goaded me by implying that I would flee rather than fight.  If our roles were reversed, he would stand his ground and enlist every resource at his disposal to neutralize the threat.  In his case, money.  In mine, connections.”  She shrugs.  “I did as he expected, although I’m afraid I fell a bit short.  His expectations were rather high, after all.”

            “You came to me instead of—our friend.”  Sherrinford searches her face, scouring it for some trace of the terror he had seen there last night.  “But you _were_ afraid.”

            She chuckles.  “I did dabble in acting.  The damsel in distress routine is old hat.”

            “But what I saw from you last night, that was…”  He holds out his hands, fingers curved toward the palms, as if trying to grasp the essence of the problem.  “That was _real_ ,” he says, not knowing how to say it better.  “Magnussen did threaten you with something terrifying.”

            Any trace of mirth has vanished from her face now.  He isn’t expecting her to confirm his hypothesis by any means—in fact, he expects her to tell him off.  When she opens her mouth to speak, her words are hard and pointed, like daggers.  “Imagine the worst thing with which a man can threaten a woman,” she says.  “What Mr. Magnussen promised me yesterday evening was twenty times worse.  The equivalent of lifelong enslavement.  You would be afraid, too.  I don’t doubt it.”

            Sherrinford does not doubt that, either.  He longs to ask _whom_ Magnussen threatened her with, and to hear her say the name, to confirm, to fit all of the puzzle pieces together, but instead he changes topics, because he wants to keep her here, in the doorway—because his anger is ebbing, and he wants to hold onto it.  “You knowingly sent us into a trap.  Magnussen stationed at least one man in the lobby—Watson drew my attention to him by bumping into him.  Hoping to collect, ah, Jeremy, I expect.”

            She smiles again.  “It wasn’t your trap to spring, and there would be little value in holding you hostage in place of our friend—there’s no guarantee he’d return for his long-estranged brother, not when it meant putting his mission at risk.  There’s a case to be made for abducting John Watson, perhaps, but not you.”

            Her words seep under his skin and pool there, oily.  “Worthless by comparison,” he says bitterly.  “I see.”

            “Hardly,” she replies.  “You’re no Jeremy Sigerson, granted, but you’ve served a purpose.  Magnussen believed I would enlist the best man I had at my disposal, so I enlisted you.  You helped me prove my ignorance and demonstrate that I have no means of contacting our friend in even emergency situations.”

            “And are you?”

            “Am I what?”

            “Ignorant.”

            She pauses, and then says slowly, “More ignorant than I’d like, but less than I pretend to be.”

            He shakes his head.  He can’t loathe her.  He wants to, but, acting in the name of self-preservation, she deconstructed an impressively woven trap and saved both her own skin and Sherlock’s.  That he was a pawn is almost inconsequential.  “You are…”  He crams his hand down into his pockets and looks at her—and, though she is much shorter than he without her heels, he feels as though he is looking up.  “Well, you are something.”

            She doesn’t bow her head out of modesty, doesn’t deny the claim.  All she does is say, “I’d like to show you something.”

            “All right.”

            But he doesn’t move forward, and she doesn’t step back to admit him.

            “Later, I think,” she says.

            “That’s fine.  On your own time.”  He rubs his chin.  “But I don’t believe we’ll have a ‘later,’ Miss Adler.”

            “Oh, dear,” she says, and the amusement returns.  “Are you that angry with me?”

            “No,” he says.  “Given the circumstances, It would be best for us to stop associating with each other.”

            “Magnussen isn’t—”

            “Not your circumstances,” he says.  “Mine.  I have an unfortunate habit of endangering the people I come to know, and…”  He trails off; he’s remembering blood on the floor.  So much blood in the human body.  Eight pints.  He closes his eyes, opens them again to dispel the image.  The truth of the matter is that no one in this hallway is a knight in shining armor.  They are both haunted.

           Irene completes his thought for him.  “It’s no secret that you’re very much attracted to me.”

            Sherrinford rocks back and forth.  Having it laid bare like that makes the blood rise in his cheeks.  “And it’s no secret that you’re more interested in my long-legged companion.” 

           “Joan Watson is very—”

            “You don’t need to offer your opinion of Watson, Miss Adler,” he interrupts.  “I am not _blind_.”

            When Irene grins, her teeth are very white.  “She’s very beautiful.”

            “As I said: not blind.” 

            “I think she’d look even better tied up.”

            “Of that I have no opinion whatsoever.”

            “And I’m out of practice,” she continues.  “With straight women, especially.  I’ve been hypnotizing people from a distance for the past few months. I’m afraid I’ve lost my touch at close-range seduction.”

            “I’ll be the first to assure you that you haven’t in the slightest.”

            She sighs.  “I was showing off a bit yesterday.  I’m not sure she even noticed.”

            “You’re a woman,” Sherrinford says, and he’s talking without thinking because if he thinks too much, this might hurt.  “She isn’t predisposed to noticing women.  You’ll need to attach a large neon sign to your forehead that reads ‘I am flirting with you’ if you want Joan Watson to realize you’re being anything more than friendly.”  That gets a real laugh out of Irene, something floating and melodic that should last longer than it does.  “But you could do worse.  She’s reliable, to say the least.  And she’s keen on stability and safety, which might be… beneficial for you.”

            “ _I’m_ not a recovering drug addict, Sherry darling.”

            “Neither am I, Miss Adler.”

            She regards him for a moment, and then offers a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.  For some reason, he feels incredibly validated.  Irene doesn’t choose to dwell.  “It’s hopeless, I’m afraid.  She does seem very straight.” 

            Now it’s Sherrinford’s turn to sigh.  “Well,” he says, “a man can dream.”

            Irene smiles again.  “I ought to slap you just for that.”

            “I’m waiting,” he replies.  When Irene does not move to do so, he adds, “Her indenture is nearing its completion, and soon she will be out of my life altogether.  There’s no harm in asking her out for coffee or something of that nature while you’re able.”

            Raising her eyebrows, Irene says, “She tried to turn me into a project earlier.  I didn’t much like it.”

            “She also demonstrated remarkable restraint with Magnussen.  I am beginning to believe she can be taught.”  He pauses, wondering how much he wants to press this angle, wondering if he should add this last bit in.  “Also, she called you a friend.”

            “Did she?”

            “To Magnussen’s face, no less.”

            Irene seems pleased to hear that.  She folds her arms over her chest.  “I’ll consider it.”

            “Good.”  He glances over his shoulder, half-expecting Joan to appear, but, true to her word, she remains nowhere to be seen.  Still down in the lobby, then, waiting.  “Now I must return to her before she decides it’s necessary to chastise me for procrastinating.  Somehow my simple apology turned into a half-hour’s… flirtation.”

            “It did, a bit, didn’t you?”  When she blinks, he notices the gentle sweep of her eyelashes.  “Odd way to a girl’s heart, setting her up with a trusted friend.”

            He wrinkles his nose.  “It’s an unconventional tactic of mine.”

            “Charming,” she replies, her eyes twinkling as she begins to close the door.  “Convention truly doesn’t suit you.  Good night, Sherry darling.” 

            “Good night, Miss…” he begins, but the door clicks shut before he can finish his sentence, and he swallows.  “Irene,” he says quietly, and it hurts to say.  “Good night, Irene.”  He presses his fingertips against the door, very briefly, as if, through it, he can feel the steady heartbeat of the living, breathing woman on the other side.


	8. The Date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long! To compensate, this chapter _is_ very long, so that's something. I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Note that a character's name has been changed to comply with canon developments! I _thought_ that a Milverton might be involved in _Sherlock_ 's third season... I just didn't expect his name to be Magnussen, so that's been fixed. (The intent was to channel that character, and _Elementary_ 's interpretation was very different, and also dead. So we're going to roll with this.)
> 
> If you want to follow this story's progress, I sometimes post about it on my [Tumblr](http://makokitten.tumblr.com/). (This story's Irene also has a [Tumblr](http://lydiandominant.tumblr.com/), but she mostly uses it to collect pictures of women in lingerie.)
> 
> [Seth](http://archiveofourown.org/users/h3rring/), my beta, is a godsend as usual, and I would be nowhere without him.

* * *

            Joan arrives at the Museum of Modern Art at eleven A.M. sharp, and when she does Rebecca is already there, waiting patiently with her hands on her clutch purse.  “Hello,” she says, not bothering to put on her fake American accent today.  Her real voice is rich and dark and resonant.

            “Hi,” says Joan.  Her hand is on her purse strap, and her fingers tighten when she speaks, taking Rebecca in.  “Wow, you look—” 

            “I know,” says Rebecca, and then she smiles at herself, and Joan smiles too because she feels compelled, somehow.  It’s a nervous smile, but it’s rooted in a sense of strange familiarity, because Joan can just imagine Sherlock saying the exact same thing.

            Rebecca’s hair falls in carefully styled waves around her face, and her outfit—ensemble—is all red: not blinding scarlet, but a deep crimson that makes her dark hair seem darker, blue eyes seem bluer, and fair skin seem fairer by contrast.  Her clutch sparkles silver, as does her necklace, her eye shadow, and the ring that she wears on her right hand.  She’s made herself up into someone who wouldn’t look out of place in a museum, on display.  “You do too.”

            “Oh, no,” says Joan, shaking her head, waving off the compliment.  It makes her cheeks tingle for a reason she can’t explain.  “I don’t come close.”

            “You don’t need to.  I’m overdressed.”  Rebecca shifts her weight slightly, and Joan gets the impression that she wants to reach out and touch, but doesn’t.  “I like your hair,” she says at last.  “I like it down.”

            “Thanks.  Yours looks nice, too.”  Joan runs a hand through her own hair to push it out of her face.  It’s almost imperceptibly crimped from where her hair tie sat when it was still slightly damp and she pulled it up, down, and up again this morning, trying to figure out the best way to present herself on a date with another woman.  Hair back or down?  Slacks or a skirt?  Heels or—no, definitely heels.  Sherlock told her to just go in what makes her feel comfortable, to treat this like any other date.  While she’s not sure taking advice from him is a good idea, generally speaking, he _was_ the one who set this up. 

            She should have known there would be a twist when he told her, “Watson, I’ve found for you a potential suitor.”  When she expressed her reservations about being paired up with anyone he knew, he explained that he had been texting Rebecca and was expecting her to call any minute.  She thought that she was being set up with someone Rebecca knew, and that Rebecca would call Sherlock with details.

            But then it was Joan’s phone that rang, and Rebecca, not one of her male friends, who wanted to meet up at the museum.  Joan assumed Rebecca would be bringing someone along.  Sherlock corrected that assumption only after Joan was off the phone.

            “I didn’t even know she was interested in women,” Joan told Sherlock after realizing she’d accidentally agreed to a date.  “I thought she was interested in you.  Aren’t you two flirting all the time?” 

            “Flirtation is but another mode of many for communication,” Sherlock said.  “In the end, it amounts to appreciably little.”   But he sulked after that, and Joan could tell she hit a nerve, so she let it drop. 

            Rebecca is watching her with eyes that are almost too intense to meet full on.  Joan can tell that she’s being read.  What does Rebecca see in the wrinkles of her clothes, in the length of her nails, in whatever it is that she and Sherlock focus in on in that way that they have?  Joan shakes off the urge to question, thinking that they should get out of the lobby at some point, so she says, “So, Museum of Modern Art?”

            “I thought it would be adventurous,” says Irene.  “And here you are.”

            “Here I am,” Joan agrees.  “Should we get in line and get the—oh.”  Rebecca’s already reached into her clutch purse and pulled out two museum passes.  “Okay.”

            “I was here early, so I—”

            “No, that’s, that’s great.  I’ll pay you back.  They’re how much?”

            “You don’t have to.” 

            “No, I do.”  Joan rummages around in her own purse for her wallet.  Funny how things tend to lose themselves just when you need them.  Funny how her hand’s not really doing what she’s telling it to; her fingers feel brittle.  She glances up at Rebecca, who’s not doing anything aside from standing there, and yet—well, she’s doing _something_ , because Joan’s definitely feeling—Joan supposes Rebecca must have practice at charming people, after all those years of being a sex worker, and wonders _how_ she’s doing it.  (It probably wouldn’t be a good idea to ask.  That would mean admitting she’s a little warmer than she should be.)  Idly, Joan also wonders what her mother would have to say about this whole going-on-a-date-with-a-former-sex-worker thing, and decides she doesn’t want to know.

            “It’s my treat,” Rebecca insists.  “I’ve all this money and no one to lavish it on, and you’ve been kind enough to indulge me by coming out today.” 

            “Well, it’s not like pulling teeth,” Joan says, giving up and hoisting her purse back up on her shoulder.  The word _lavish_ lingers in her ear, brushes over her skin like a caress.  “I wanted to.” 

            “Oh?” 

            “Yeah, it’s, you know.”  She shrugs.  All of the words coming out of her mouth taste like chalk.  “I wanted to get to know you better.  Maybe have a chance to talk.  Maybe just listen, if that’s what you want.”

            “Ah.”  Rebecca drums her fingers on her clutch.  “So your Mr. Holmes did tell you a thing or two about my sordid past.  You’re curious?” 

            Joan looks over her shoulder at the people shuffling in through the museum’s door and says, “We should really get out of the lobby.”

            When Rebecca smiles, her red lips contrast with her brilliantly white teeth.  She says, “Okay.”

            They scan the museum’s map and pick a direction, and spend the next forty-five minutes or so moving through room after oddly shaped room and not talking about Rebecca’s sordid past.  In fact, Rebecca does not talk much at all, except to read the names of various works and ask Joan what she thinks of them.  Joan isn’t sure if it’s a test or not.  If it is, it’s one she has no idea how to pass, except she knows that having Rebecca’s full attention makes her want to come off as clever and insightful and also makes her trip over her tongue.

            It’s just charm, Joan reminds herself.  Rebecca just possesses some kind of magnetism she’s had to develop for her job—what used to be her job—her current job, too, actually.  The last time Joan had been alone with Rebecca, Rebecca had been suffering from shock, but she’s clearly in her element now, and she radiates power and poise and beauty and it’s honestly hard to look at her too long without overheating.  Joan can’t explain it.  She’s _never_ reacted to a woman like this, but—maybe it’s just that Rebecca’s looking at her like that, listening to her like she’s the only person on this planet who matters.

            Women like this are legendary, and rare.  Joan always thought the stories of famous mistresses and their seductive prowess had to be overrated, but Rebecca’s changing her mind very quickly.  It’s not difficult to imagine her single-handedly winning over half of Parliament.  Joan thinks that she can easily imagine why someone would want Rebecca dead, and feels both ill and awestruck.

            Honest to god, it’s unfair to have that kind of power directed at her.  It’s no wonder she isn’t holding up.  No wonder.

            Under the influence of Rebecca’s practiced charisma, Joan tries to come up with meaningful contributions to the conversation, and keeps falling short.  Rebecca just listens, nods, encourages her, but doesn’t give any indication of what her thoughts are.  Finally, Joan says, “Look, modern art isn’t really my forte.  What do _you_ think?” 

            “Me?” Rebecca asks,

            “Well, I’m not the only one capable of having opinions.”

            “No, you’re not.”  Rebecca studies the sculpture they’ve come to stop in front of, and says, “I think I could stick a wheel on top of a stool myself and it wouldn’t be anything more than rubbish.”

            “Oh, thank god,” Joan blurts out before she can stop herself.  When Rebecca cocks her head to the side, she clarifies, “I thought it was just me.”

            Rebecca laughs, and Joan finds herself laughing, too.  They laugh long enough to attract stares from a pair of German tourists who loiter nearby.  Joan clears her throat, but another beat or two of laughter escapes after, too.  “So, what?” she says.  “You’ve been running me in circles for the past hour, to—what?  Get a sense of my critical thinking skills?  Because Sherlock’s already done a pretty thorough job of breaking them down, so if you just wanted an assessment—”

            “No.”  Rebecca presses her hand to her lips, as if trying to hold in a secret.  “I wanted to know how much you wanted to impress me.”

            Joan blinks, stammers, which is not something she’s used to doing.  “Look,” she says flatly.  “I don’t know why you’re doing this, but I just—”

            “What really _matters_ with modern art,” Rebecca continues, “is the intent.  A lot of it is social commentary—political, or self-referential; a grand statement on the nature of art itself.  You might say it’s all about storytelling.  Stories don’t just exist in a vacuum, Joan Watson.  They’re shaped by the reader.  We shape them.”

            “Okay…”  Joan squints, unsure of where this is going.  She points at the sculpture.  “Shape that one, then.”

            “Right now?”

            “I mean it.  I know you can come up with something better than wheel-on-stool.” 

            Rebecca nods her head once.  “All right.  This one is…”  She presses her lips together as she thinks, and says, after a few seconds, “My dog died, and my wife got the house in the divorce.”

            “That wasn’t trying.”

            “No?”

            “No.  It sounds like every country-western song I’ve ever heard.”

            Rebecca crosses her arms, but her eyes twinkle.  “I’d like to see you do better.”

            “Fine.”

            “Well?”

            “Give me a second.  You’re making me rewrite art.”  Joan crosses her arms, too, and looks at the sculpture.  “Despair surrounds me,” she says.  “The secret of life is to… something about wheels.”

            “ _Very_ impressive.”

            “Thanks.  I worked hard on it.  It was a haiku.”

            “I noticed.”

            They look at each other.

            “I feel like I understand that sculpture better now,” says Joan.

            “Yes,” Rebecca agrees, on the verge of uncharacteristic giggles.  “It’s the ‘something about wheels’ part that resonates with me.”

            “Definitely.”

            “So you see, then?  Art’s only as good as the story behind it.”

            “Oh,” says Joan.  “Yeah, I see.”  This entire time, Rebecca was trying to say something about herself, and not quite succeeding.  Joan looks down, unsure of how to respond, and then back up, smiling warmly.  “Want to rewrite more art?”

            “I’d love to,” Rebecca says.  “Between you and me, I much prefer your versions to the originals.” 

* * *

            She and Joan Watson giggle their way through the exhibits like teenagers; Rebecca Rochelle, who is really Irene Adler, didn’t think she’d ever know something this simple again.  Everything’s been so complicated since Karachi, even though it seems mundane: eating and sleeping and breathing and singing all require so much more effort than they should.  Now, watching Joan Watson’s face light up with mirth takes absolutely no effort at all. 

            They find their way to an open room full of small sculptures when Joan says, “I’m going to use the restroom for a second, Rebecca.” 

            “All right,” says Irene, who thinks about how Rebecca Rochelle is just another layer.  But that’s the life she’s made: layers upon layers, folds upon folds, stories upon stories.  “I’ll be right here.”

            With Joan’s back turned, Irene is free to watch the sway of her hips as she walks away and think about how the date’s progressing.  She believes it’s going well, although she hasn’t been on a proper date, without an ulterior motive, for a very long time.  She may have been turning herself on too strongly before—her old self, Rebecca’s stage persona, the woman who can captivate anyone at a glance.  She’s made an effort to scale it back, at least at first, so as not to scare Joan away.

            It’s working.  Joan seems more comfortable now, far more willing to laugh and joke and tell stories about herself.  Strictly speaking, she doesn’t know the stories are autobiographical, but Irene does.  From an elongated pause, Irene infers the existence of a drug addict ex; from a word association and a guilty look, overbearing parents.  She learns it all without even having to ask by turning it into a game, because she wants to know, and because Joan isn’t about to tell her.  That’s not first date material.

            Irene realizes that she is still staring at the corner around which Joan Watson vanished and averts her gaze to one of the glass-encased sculptures.  When she does, she catches the reflection of a man behind her, catches his eyes as he looks at her and then quickly away.  No, was it at her he was looking, or the sculpture?  Their eyes met for a moment in the glass, she could have sworn it.  He is a middle-aged man; his face is unfamiliar to her.  That means nothing.  Her face might be familiar to him. 

            She looks up.  The two German tourists who glared at her and Joan for laughing too loudly are across the room, arguing over a museum pamphlet—snatches of conversation—they want to see different exhibits, and have limited time before the tour bus leaves.  Twenty feet from Irene, to the left, a man’s spectacles flash, and her heart does a—no, it is a different man, it isn’t who she thought it was.  Her heart palpitates wildly; that’s what happens when you have a shock.  It doesn’t stop. 

            A young man sighs as he checks his watch, waiting for his girlfriend to reappear from the restroom, thinking about how late it’s getting for lunch, thinking about the—he—hands—clearly he keeps in very good shape, broad shoulders; could kill a man with arms like those, she thinks.  Could pull a trigger with those hands, could pin a woman down.

            _There is no violence in his eyes_ , she tells herself.  _There is no violent intent_.  Irene casts her own eyes down to her own hands, to the silver ring on her finger, an exact replica of one she was given long ago, but she keeps checking her peripheral vision, sure she is being watched, certain they are observing her, waiting, biding their time, because every old man is Magnussen, because every young man is Moran.

            Her hands, focus on her hands.  They are too thin, her fingers are bony.  They are old woman’s hands.  She is an old woman.  Her wrist was broken five weeks ago but it’s healing well.  He is holding her down; she has been sold; she will not be sold again, Mr. Magnussen, and she will ensure it.  This time, she will say no.  She did not tell him no when he held her down.  She did not want to waste her words on him.  He wouldn’t have listened, anyway.  I don’t want to sleep, Mr. Holmes.  In her peripheral vision, the old man’s face distorts.  Breath is short.  They are watching her, the men, and she can’t move.  She is rooted right here, like a tree.  Trees don’t grow in the desert.

            She is a point; she is trapped; the essence of her has been sucked behind her ribcage and it beats against her bones, rattling, wanting to escape, to burst from her chest like a prolonged and horrible scream.

            And then Joan Watson is back, and she’s saying, “Rebecca?  Can you hear me?” and Irene wonders what her face must look like.  Her body is sweating.  She does not open her mouth for fear of shrieking like a banshee.

            Joan’s frantic tone attracts attention, and a security guard comes to check if they’re all right, and that’s all he’s doing but when he approaches Irene feels herself shrink away, feels her shoulders hunch, defensive posture, one she’s not used to assuming, one she’d never assume.  But she is not herself; she is the point behind her ribcage.  The rest is just a shell, too large.  She is a snail whose house is too big, a tree that can’t grow in the desert and withers for want of watering.

            “It’s okay,” Joan tells the security guard, her voice firm and biting.  _Leave us alone_ , it says.  Oh, Irene has never been able to live her life without protection.  “We’re fine.  Rebecca?  Becca, we’re going to go sit down, okay?”

            Somehow, Irene finds it in herself to control her head, and then her feet; an instant later, Joan has taken her to the balcony and is sitting her down on a bench.  “You’re fine,” she says, sitting down beside Irene.  Her body heat is an incredible source of comfort.  “I’m with you.  I’m going to breathe.  I want you to breathe with me.  Okay?  In and out.  Just like this.  In, out.  You’re doing great.  All right, let’s do ten, just like that.  Ten, nine…”

            Irene’s first counted breaths are shuddering half-sobs; eventually they stabilize into something her lungs can make use of.  She closes her eyes, and her right hand shifts over toward Joan, who squeezes it.  “Great,” Joan says again.  Simple, repeated, reassuring statements.  Irene wonders if she learned that in sober companion training, and then wonders that she has space to wonder at all.

            “Just keep breathing,” Joan tells her.  “I’m right here.”

            Little by little, Irene reoccupies her body.  She keeps breathing until she has enough breath to form words again, but when she does she finds herself at a loss.  How can she excuse herself?  How can she begin to?  Her companions would never—Kate never had the chance to see her this vulnerable, nor the women who came before her.  And yet here they are, she and Joan Watson.

            Eventually, she decides not to explain at all. “You’re not bad at calming people down,” is all she says.  She doesn’t open her eyes.

            “This isn’t my first anxiety attack,” Joan replies gently.

            Irene shifts her shoulders against the wall.  She thinks she can feel the scars shift with her, thick and gnarled and raised where it should be flat.  She’s still overly warm.  “I wish I could say the same.”

            Joan squeezes her hand again.  “It’s all right.”

            “No one’s called me—”  Irene swallows, tries again.  Has to make it seem authentic, doesn’t she?  Ostensibly, Rebecca Rochelle is _her_ name.  It belongs to her, and she should have memories of it.  “No one’s called me ‘Becca’ since I was very small.”  She smiles, and conjures up some fake life experiences: her mother calling her to dinner, her father comforting her after a nightmare.  The resulting blend of emotion should be enough to fool Joan Watson.  “It sounds like a scared little girl’s name.  I’d rather you not use it again.” 

            “I’m sorry,” Joan says, and she is really sorry, and Irene likes her all the more for it.  “It just sort of slipped out.  If it’s any consolation, you’re free to call me ‘Joanie.’” 

            “Joanie,” Irene repeats, and she finds herself able to look straight into Joan’s eyes once again.  Panic’s subsided, then, or subsiding.  She likes looking in Joan’s eyes, she decides.  They’re nicely shaped, and dark, and friendly.  No ulterior motivation to be found, only concern.  “I do like ‘Joanie.’  It feels… familiar.  Is that what your friends call you?”

            Joan smiles back at her.  “It is.”

            “And lovers?”

            The smile falters as Joan struggles with what to put on her face and what to hide.  Bittersweet recollections of love lost, no doubt, and—oh, embarrassment.  But Irene never quite learned how to beat about the bush.  “Some of them.”

            There is something incomparably satisfying about making a grown woman blush.  Irene squeezes her hand to assure her it’s fine.  She confuses a lot of people, after all.  “I’ve had my fill of modern art,” she says.  “I think we need a change of scenery.  How do you feel about coffee?” 

* * *

             They retreat to a Starbucks on 6th Avenue and are somehow lucky enough to find a table.  Joan volunteers to wait in line for coffee and let Irene sit.  She prescribes something decaf for Irene, who asks, “If there’s no caffeine, then what’s the point?”  But Irene settles for a decaf latte with skim milk, and sends Joan off with her order.  While she’s alone, she refreshes her makeup in a compact mirror, and once her lips have been glossed to satisfaction she uses it to check over her shoulder to make sure no one’s watching her.  The only watchers are women, envious of her clothes, her stylized hair and makeup.  She snaps the mirror shut and puts it away.

            Joan buys herself something warm, too.  Something in the green tea family, going by the smell.  “I had you pegged as a chai,” says Irene, who reaches for her wallet as Joan approaches.

            “Don’t worry about it,” says Joan, setting the latte down in front of her.  “I didn’t know if you wanted sugar, so I just grabbed—I said it’s okay.  It’s my treat.”

            “Are you sure?”

            “Rebecca, it’s three dollars.  You bought me museum passes today.  I can cover this.”

            Irene slips her wallet back into her clutch.  Joan was kind enough to put a sleeve on her coffee cup.  Irene removes the plastic lid and blows on it to cool it down, while Joan sends a quick text to Sherlock, just to check in.  “I feel like this is something of a failure, as first dates go,” she says, studying Joan through her eyelashes.

            Joan laughs, although Irene notices that she stiffens at the “first date” bit.  Her shoulders inch up toward her ears just that much.  She closes her eyes, takes a long sip of tea and then says, “No, it’s fine.  What happened in the museum wasn’t your fault… and, I mean, it could be worse.  I could have left by now.”

            “Do you do often that?” Irene asks.

            “What?” 

            “Walk out in the middle of first dates.”

            Joan’s fingers tap against her paper cup, an unconscious nervous reaction.  She doesn’t know how to answer the question without making herself look bad—so now Irene knows she’s had occasion to leave in the middle of a date before.  “I mean, if it’s pretty clear that we’re not compatible, then…”

            “So you think we might be compatible,” Irene says with a small smile as she goes in for her first tentative sip.  White foam kisses her mouth; the coffee underneath is only a bit too hot.  She licks her lips and replaces the lid on her cup.  “After all, you’re still here.” 

            “I… don’t know.”  Joan’s looking for the right time to say she’s not sure she’s interested in women, Irene can tell.  Why not just say it?  Does she think it’s rude?  But then she says: “I mean, the museum was fun.”

            _Oh, Joanie, dear, politeness should only go so far.  You’re going to make me think you’re_ genuinely _interested_.  “Until I went crazy,” Irene points out.

            It’s meant to be self-deprecating humor, but Joan, earnest, honest Joan, she jumps right on, won’t let it go.  “You’re not crazy.”

            “You’ve no idea,” Irene murmurs dangerously.

            “You’re _not_ ,” Joan insists.  “You had something traumatic happen to you pretty recently—it’s a pretty typical panic response, not a sign of…”  She trails off, catching sight of Irene’s raised eyebrow.  “Were you—you were flirting.” 

            “Lots of ways to be crazy, _doctor_ ,” Irene says, crossing her right leg over her left.  “Axe murderer crazy, tinfoil hat crazy, crazy in the boudoir…”

            Joan shifts in her seat, but she’s smiling now, just a little, just at the corners of her mouth.  “Or maybe you were just trying to distract me from the sordid secrets of your past,” she says, but a little more playfully now that she knows it’s all right.

            “The sordid secrets of my past seem like heavy topics for a first date, although admittedly I haven’t gone on a date like this in a very long time,” Irene says.  “I may be doing it wrong.”

            “You haven’t gone on a date?”

            “Not like this.”

            Joan furrows her brow.  “What do you mean?”

            “I’d go to dinner with clients,” Irene says, leaning back, draping her elbow over the back of the chair.  “Much more fun to discuss the logistics of a rendezvous over filet mignon.  I’d only ever walk away if I felt un _safe_ , which wasn’t often.  The nature of my work is—was such that I sometimes found myself putting up with unpleasant but harmless personalities for the sake of great reward.  Honestly, those were the people I most enjoyed trampling in heels.”  Joan’s grin suits her so well.  How unfair that she should be so beautiful.

            “I had my side projects, of course, for fun, but there was always an agenda.  Usually, it was mischief.”  Irene sips her latte.  “I don’t have an agenda now.”

            “That sounds…” Joan is trying very hard to come up with a word that won’t offend her.  Irene can see the cogs turning in her head.  Bless your big heart, Joan Watson.  “… lonely,” she says at last.  “I mean, to treat interpersonal relationships like business transactions.  I can’t imagine.” 

            “It wasn’t,” Irene says, and she isn’t lying.  “I had companions.”

            “But you didn’t love them.” 

            She shrugs.  “Love is for other people.  In fact, love isn’t for _most_ people.  When people claim they’re looking for love, it’s really a formula that they want: companionship, compatibility, and sex.  Love is something far more disruptive and far less predictable than what you’ll find in most relationships, if you start looking hard.”

            Joan turns this over in her mind, and Irene wants to take the curve of her frowning lip between her teeth.  “So you don’t believe in love.”

            “Oh, I never said that,” Irene replies with a smile.  “I was in love, once.”

            “Really?” 

            The disbelief in Joan’s voice shocks Irene to laughter.  “Dear, you sound so scandalized.”

            “Well, I just—you sounded so methodical about it before that I didn’t think you’d ever let your guard down.”  But Joan leans in.  She’s curious, now.  Her eyes flicker to the ring on Irene’s right hand, and Irene shifts her finger ever so slightly so that it catches the light.  “What was she like—he?”

            “She,” Irene confirms, amused.  “She was one of my first clients.  A lawyer.  Very striking, very smart, entirely too married.  About ten years my senior.  When she bent over for me—well, I was so green then, can you imagine how it felt to have this amazing woman grovel at my feet?”

            “I can’t,” says Joan, and she colors slightly at the mention of domination but remains enraptured all the same, her dark eyes fixed on Irene’s face.  “What happened?” 

            “We started talking, which is always dangerous.”  Irene waves her hand around.  “She did me a favor here and there, helped me rid myself of a few too-persistent suitors.  We were going to elope, but… politics.”  She shakes her head.  “Always politics.  I decided I wouldn’t love anyone thereafter, and on the whole my life’s been far less complicated.  But what about you?” she asks, turning the magnifying glass on Joan.  “Have _you_ ever been in love?”

            Joan sets her tea on the table and looks off to the side, over the heads of the other Starbucks patrons.  Irene wonders what she sees there, if she’s watching the ghosts of boyfriends past float by.  That’s fine.  She’ll give Joan a moment.  God knows she has enough ghosts in her life for a parade that would take up the better part of the afternoon. 

            “It’s funny,” Joan says at last.  “I look back on some of the crazy things I’ve done for people when I was with them, and…”  She shakes her head. “… that’s the only explanation.  I mean, it has to be.  I _have_ to have been in love with them, or why would I have done any of it?”

            “Maybe you’re a little bit mad,” Irene says gently.  “That’s not an insult—most people are.  It just takes more self-awareness than most people _have_ to admit to it.” 

            She reaches out, then, just a little, just to rest her fingers on top of Joan’s.  She’d been edging closer all through the conversation, so it doesn’t take much effort to bridge the gap; when Joan feels the touch, though, she looks down and says, “Oh,” but she doesn’t pull away.  She looks, and Irene lets her, and then at last she asks, “If you’re not looking for love, then why ask me out?”

            “Because I _am_ looking for companionship, compatibility, and sex.”  Irene strokes her index finger back and forth across Joan’s.  “I’m in self-imposed exile, but that doesn’t mean I have to deprive myself of the things I like.  I have done, but for too long, I think.  And I find you attractive.”

            “Oh,” Joan says again.

            “And, more importantly, I find you interesting.”  The smirk that plays across her lips is one that she’s used to enrapture seven diplomats, two U.S. senators, and a princess.  “Do you find me interesting?”

            It’s all too fun to watch her squirm.  Irene has her now—has _her_ , not just her attention.  Checkmate already.   “I think,” Joan says.  “I mean, yes, but I think—”

            “You’re trying to find the right moment to tell me you’re not gay.”

            Joan exhales.  “Yeah, I’m sorry,” she says, but she doesn’t take her hand out from under Irene’s, and her eyes dart to Irene’s mouth before she looks off to the side.  Privately, Irene thrills that it’s so difficult for Joan to get the words out, because the way she’s sitting and her furtive little glances reveal that it’s not just politeness anymore.  She’s questioning.  She can’t say she’s not interested in women because she isn’t sure what her interests are.

            “And I know that.”  Irene practically hums the words, low and melodic.  She raises her other hand and brushes her fingers against Joan’s jawline—everything about her is so sharp and lovely.  “But will you let me try something anyway?  It won’t hurt a bit.”

            “Um…”

            “‘No’ is a perfectly valid answer.” 

            “No—I didn’t say ‘no,’” says Joan.

            “Oh, my dear,” Irene purrs, “I’m going to need a ‘yes’ out of you.”

            “Haha, oh, god.”  Joan’s laugh: brief, self-conscious, unsteady, self-deprecating.  She glances over her shoulder again, but no one is watching them.  Irene knows.  She’s been checking.  “You’re going to kiss me in the middle of a Starbucks.”  Punctuated with another exhale.  “I’m way too old for this.  Okay.”

            “Okay?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Good,” says Irene.  “Because I’ve been wondering what your lips feel like.” 

            And before Joan can stammer out a response, Irene finds out.  Joan’s lips feel just like lips, honestly, and lips are skin, but she takes good care of hers: lip balm in the winter when it gets cold.  Lip gloss today: flavorless, and most of it’s worn off this late into their date.  Joan didn’t reapply.  Back to the kiss: no response initially, just acceptance.  Too much confusion.  Then, a fraction of a second in: a slight amount of pressure, tentative kissing back.  Joan’s lips are so full.

            Irene guides the kiss to ensure that it remains simple: the kind of kiss you might give a friend you haven’t seen in a long while, but prolonged to the point that the intent clearly isn’t the expression of a sisterly bond.  Irene doesn’t part her lips, doesn’t try to force her tongue in Joan’s mouth, because she’s not inelegant, not like most men.  Closed-mouth kissing works wonders on women, anyway.  On her end: the warmth of attraction filling her chest with a little flutter of panic intermingled like strangled birdsong.  Her fingers shift to the underside of Joan Watson’s wrist.

            She’s the one to pull back; Joan wants to kiss longer, even though she probably hasn’t registered it, not consciously.  Irene opens her eyes.  She had closed them instinctually, which is rare for her.  (Usually when she closes her eyes it’s part of the calculation, to make them think she’s interested, to draw them in.)  Joan opens her eyes, too.  Her pupils are blown out; her pulse races beneath the pads of Irene’s fingers, under the smooth and vulnerable skin of her wrist.  Irene smiles.  (We adapt to survive, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.)

            “I could have you,” she sighs, idly caressing Joan’s jaw.  “Easily.  I could call a cab right now and kiss you in the back seat, run my fingers through your hair.  It would be a pleasure, Joan Watson, and such a challenge, keeping your clothes on until we got to safety.  You know that, don’t you?  I’m having a hard time stopping myself from undressing you right here.  But I’d have to wait, Joanie.  And it’s so cruel of you, to make me wait.  Do you know what happens to people who are cruel to me?”  She didn’t think it was possible for Joan’s pulse to pound any harder.  Oh, that little swallow.  For god’s sake, it’s too much fun.

            “I could touch you, though, in the cab,” Irene continues, watching the color flood Joan’s cheeks, watching her eyelashes flutter down to hide those dilated pupils.  “And in the elevator up to my flat.  I’d thank you for wearing a skirt.”  Under the table, Joan’s legs shift.  Irene brushes her toe box against Joan’s boots.  “And when we got upstairs I’d lay you out on the bed so I could see all of you.  Most of my old things are in my closet, but I keep the cuffs in my nightstand, just in case.  Just in case someone like you came along.  Before I cuffed you down, I’d have take off that jacket you’re wearing.  And your shirt.  I’d unwrap you like a present—which you are, you know.  You’re a gift.  I want to taste you.”

            But even as she says it, she feels something like an icy hand reach around her heart and squeeze.  (Oh, she knows that hand.  Steady trigger finger.)  What if Joan wanted to see her, too?  What if Joan wanted them on a level playing field—worse, what if Joan wanted to reciprocate?  And she would, probably; she might feel guilty if she came and Irene didn’t.  Maybe she’d become suspicious if Irene refused her request, because who doesn’t want to be touched?  But she can’t let Joan touch her, not if there’s anything wrong, any physical evidence of what happened, there.  (She doesn’t know, she hasn’t looked.)  Joan’s a doctor—would Joan know if she saw, if she felt?  Would Joan know what had happened to her?  Does Joan know already? 

            Moronic.  It would never have worked.

            Irene sits back, removes herself from Joan, gives Joan her space back, lets her breathe.  “But I won’t do that,” she says.  “Not because you wouldn’t enjoy yourself—I know you would—but because it would shatter all of your preconceived notions of who you are, what you like.  You wouldn’t know yourself.  You’d be too bewildered to call me again.  Maybe too shy.  Maybe too determined to return to relative normalcy.  And…”  She picks up her latte to sip it again, and finds her cup empty.  When had that happened?  “I do want you to call me again.”

            “You do?” Joan asks.  She’s still short of breath, which Irene finds endearing.  Nervousness has been replaced by curiosity and confusion.  If Irene _were_ to touch her, she’d probably be wet.  It’s a pity. 

            “I like you,” Irene says simply.  “I’ve had my fair share of friends, but there are friends, and then there are people I like.”  For lack of anything better to do, she drums her fingers against the side of her cup: a hollow sound, echoing loud in her ears.  She mustn’t let it show that she’s not a whole person.  “You’re smart and funny and very pretty and you’re on track to do interesting things.  I want to be in your life when you do.”

            “I’m not,” Joan says, shaking her head.  “I’m a sober companion.”

            “For now.”

            Joan sighs, clears her throat, and polishes off the last of her tea, which must be cold by now.  “What about Sherlock?”

            Irene raises her eyebrows.  “What about him?”

            “Well, he’s interested in you,” Joan says, but hesitantly. 

            “What did he say about me after I called to ask you out?”

            A long pause.  “He said you were a lesbian,” she admits, “which I hadn’t realized.”  A shorter pause.  “But you two are _always_ flirting—I mean, you’re constantly texting, and—”

            “Did you bring this up with him?”

            “… Yes.” 

            “And what did he say, your Mr. Holmes?”

            “He said—”  Joan squares her shoulders, deepens her voice slightly.  “‘Flirtation is but another mode of many for communication.’”

            Irene bites her cheek to hold back a laugh.  “Oh, that was a very good impression.”

            “Thank you.” 

            “Accent could use some work, though.”

            “You should hear me when I’m really trying.”

            “I’d like to.”

            Joan’s cheeks darken; they’d never really reverted to their normal shade after the kiss.  Irene longs for the chance to count all of her freckles, on her face and shoulder and back and breasts, and knows she’ll never get it.  “It’s just,” Joan says, and she takes a deep breath, “I’m telling you since you’re a friend of his and you deserve to know, and because you seem to have figured half of it out already.  He was pretty badly burned in another relationship, so I thought—you know, his interest in you, moving on from that, it might be good for him.” 

            “Oh, Joanie,” Irene says, “you should have realized by now that I’m not in a position to be good for anyone.”  But because she can’t contain her curiosity, she asks, “What burned him, if you can tell me?”

            “I don’t know.”  Joan’s shrug is burdened with the weight of those three words.  “I just know that her name was Irene, and—she died.” 

            “Her name was Irene.”

            “Yes.”

            “And she died.”

            “That’s all I know.”

            Irene looks down at her feet, and, for the second time that day, feels like she might vomit.  _Men_ , she thinks.  _Oh, they never want you just to want_ you.  But then she chides herself, wondering when she got so low that she allowed him to make her feel special.

            “You okay?” Joan asks.

            “It’s a sad story.”  Irene doesn’t answer the question.  Either she tells the truth, or she doesn’t and Joan knows she’s lying anyway.  “And not uncommon.  I once knew a woman named Irene, who died.”

            “Not the same one?”

            “No, certainly not.”

            Joan clearly doesn’t know what to say, so she just says, “I’m sorry.”

            “No reason to be.  You didn’t know her.”

            Silence falls between them, heavy and swift, like a curtain after the finale.  “I’d like it,” says Irene delicately, “if we could get coffee in a couple of weeks, without the subtext.”

            “I’d like that, too,” Joan says.  “What you said about me being interesting, I think you are, too.  Without the subtext.”

            “Thank you,” Irene says.  Hollow like fingers on a coffee cup.  “I’ll text you.”

            “Okay.”

            She leans forward to plant a swift kiss on Joan’s cheek, and watches Joan unfold her legs, stand, and leave, not failing to notice that Joan pulls out her phone as soon as she’s out the door, to tell Sherrinford she’s on her way home.  Irene rubs her temples, and sits in that Starbucks alone with what’s left of herself for a long, long time.

* * *

            “Strangest date of your life?” Sherlock repeats.

            “Oh my god.”  Joan drops her purse on the floor and practically collapses into the library’s empty armchair.  She presses a hand against her forehead.  “I’m not even sure I can tell you what happened.”

            “With an opening like that, I must admit to my curiosity—”  Sherlock holds up his hands.  “Even so, no pressure.  You needn’t tell me that Miss Rebecca Rochelle has you questioning your sexuality at deeper than surface level.”

            Joan stares at him.  “How—”

            “Come now, Watson, you should see what I see if only you looked in the mirror.  Enumerating the messy details—of which there are quite a few—wouldn’t aid you in your crisis.”  Joan opens her mouth, then closes it, too weirdly drained to begin to tell him off.  Unabashed, he continues, “She did kiss you, yes?”

            “I told her she could.”  Joan sighs.  “I don’t know what came over me.  I’m not—I’ve _never_ been attracted to women, and—I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

            “As far as you’re aware,” Sherlock says, “you’ve never been attracted to women.  You wouldn’t be the first to seek out heteronormativity, thus suppressing homoerotic desires.  Women’s magazines assure their readership that fantasies of fair friends are meaningless fancy, unrelated to sexuality.  I posit to you that while a dream may just be a dream, voluntarily kissing another woman is something more concrete.  _Experimentation_ , Watson, that's the way to discover what you really are or are not.  In fact, I've tried—”

            “I don’t want to _know_ ,” Joan says firmly, sinking down further into the armchair.

            Sherlock interlaces his fingers, shifting in his chair.  “Don’t blame yourself for having questions,” he says at last.  “She used it on you.”

            “It?”

            “Herself.”  He unclasps his hands, opens them.  “Rebecca Rochelle.  You saw her performance at the club, you know what she’s capable of.  She seduced all of the men, most of the women, in the audience that night.  Her success as a sex worker is owed to her natural glamour and style.  Today, because she’s fond of you, she used her experience as a temptress and turned it on you.  It must have been like looking straight into the sun.”

            “That’s… about right,” Joan admits.  “How did you know?  Has she done it to you?”

            “No,” says Sherlock shortly.  “Was she wearing perfume?”

            Joan frowns.  “Yes, I think so, but I couldn’t describe it to you.”

            “Details, details, you must pay attention to the details, Watson.  The shade of her eye shadow?  Was she wearing jewelry?  What about the lipstick—or was it flavored lip gloss?”

            “She was wearing lip gloss,” Joan says automatically.  “It was strawberry.”

            Sherlock frowns, furrowing his brow.

            “Are you really okay hearing about this?” Joan asks, sitting up a little.  “Because I know you—”

            “Bowl of fruit,” he says.

            “Excuse me?”

            “Strawberries and blueberries.  They’re what you had on hand as breakfast when she asked, the morning after she spent the night here.  That’s how she knew which fruit you would prefer to taste.”  Joan’s mouth opens, but she doesn’t speak.  Sherlock continues, “Everything she wore today would have been tailored to your preferences.  She crafted herself into a vision aesthetically pleasing to you, so as to lure you closer.”

            “I didn’t realize,” Joan says, dumbstruck.

            “Of course not.  You’re not meant to know, or notice.  You’re meant to react the precise way she wants you to.  That’s how she treats the science of deduction.  I’ve devoted my talents to detective work, while hers are devoted to—”

            Joan rolls her eyes.  “Do _not_ say ‘seduction.’”

            Sherlock’s smile is watered down.  “You’ve said it for me.”  He clears his throat, gets up out of his chair, walks over to the bookshelf, and, his back turned, asks, “Will you be seeing her again?”

            “Just as friends.”  He looks at her, and she holds up her hands.  “Look, _she_ said she just wanted to be friends, okay?  I’m not going to invite her over and do whatever just so you can live vicariously through me.”

            “That is the exact opposite of what I want,” Sherlock says, his voice suddenly very hard.  “I thought you would be pleased with my efforts to find a fulfilling relationship for you, sexuality irrelevant, although apparently it’s not given your crisis.  In return, ideally, you would have provided Rebecca with some sense of stability, something she sorely lacks whether or not she admits to it.  My mistake, Watson.  I see now that my gesture of good will was insulting to her, too, as she has agreed to terminate communications with me entirely.”

            Joan’s stomach drops.  “What?”

            “I offered as much the last time I saw her personally, but she was reluctant to agree, and to be honest, she's much too… charming a correspondent for me to cut off all contact.”  He reaches into his pocket to hold up his phone.  “However, she reached out to me fifteen minutes ago via text and told me she now thinks it best that we no longer involve ourselves in each other.  Apparently, she believes I’m in danger of becoming infatuated with her, which, as you know, is a ridiculous stance.”

            “As I know,” Joan echoes dryly.

            “If she found herself in utter distress, she said, she wouldn't ignore my helping hand.  She went on to say that it would be a very unlikely occurrence.”

            “But that’s not what I wanted,” says Joan, utterly bewildered.  “I mean, honestly, I don’t think she’s in a position to be _dating_ right now, Sherlock, but she needs friends.”

            “Perhaps you haven’t noticed,” he says, “but I’m not friendship material.”

            Joan pushes herself out of the armchair.  “I’m going to take a nap,” she says, picking up her bag and heading for the stairs.  “Get rid of this headache.”

            “If you need some time alone,” Sherlock calls after her, “I understand.  I’ll be sure not to disturb your _crisis management_.”

            She doesn’t dignify him with a response—she really doesn’t want him to clarify his definition of “crisis management”—but she finds herself thinking of some of the things Rebecca said nonetheless.  Maybe, before she sleeps, she should take a shower.  A long, cold shower.


End file.
